


Rebel Columbia | One-Shots

by TheSolarSurfer



Series: Rebel Columbia [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mostly Gen, One Shot, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-01-01 02:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18326858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSolarSurfer/pseuds/TheSolarSurfer
Summary: A collection of ongoing one-shots taking place in my Rebel Columbia series, featuring other characters and bits of their lives. Not all of it is 'canon', necessarily, some will be deleted scenes that I never ended up using, or include details that aren't in the main fics. Updated sporadically, usually when I get requests or find old writing. Spoilers for RC.





	1. Fatherhood

**Fatherhood**

* * *

 

 

“You know, I expected this kind of shit from Stark,” Fury said, raising a single eyebrow.

His tone was casual, almost flippant, but Steve knew better than to take it at face value. Fury tossed the newspaper across the table towards him, saying, “But no. It’s the Boy Scout of America that gets his face plastered in the tabloids.”  
  
Steve glanced down at the newspaper --- _The New York Post_. At the top of the page, the headline read: CAPTAIN AMERICA: BABYDADDY OR DEADBEAT? Beneath that was a popular image of Captain America after the Battle of New York; next to that, an image of Rebel Columbia, face hidden by her goggles. There were arrows superimposed on both images, noting the blonde hair, tall stature, and even their jawlines, as if that was all the evidence the paparazzi needed to prove paternity.

It was almost funny, in a way. Steve had never taken these kind of papers very seriously, even back in the war. He had a hard time suppressing a smirk. “And you’re telling me people actually believe this sort of stuff?”

“Enough of them do, and it’s becoming a problem. And your problems are also _my_ problems.” Fury said. He leaned over, jabbed a finger on Steve’s face printed on the paper. “You have no idea what this really means, do you?”

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He just crossed his arms, jutted his chin at the paper. “She’s another super soldier. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to reinvent the serum.” He paused, then thought to add with an edge of mocking: “Didn’t SHIELD try to do that?”

“This isn’t our handiwork,” Fury replied flatly, looking a little peeved that Steve brought it up. SHIELD’s multiple attempts at creating the next Captain America had all failed in wildly different but also consistently terrible fashions. It wasn’t exactly a thing they wanted to be remembered for. “Trust me, I would know. But whoever created her --- it’s the real thing. We’ve seen what she can do, and apparently she knows it, too. I don’t think the star and shield get-up is a coincidence.”

“It can’t be the real deal.”

“Oh, it is,” Fury nodded gravely. “It deflects bullets and takes no damage. Agent Thirteen even reported it blocking tankfire. _That_ seems like the real deal to me. So, Rogers, anything you want to tell us?”

“What? About the girl?” Steve was a little stunned by the demanding tone in Fury’s voice, like the Director had already decided Steve guilty. Still, he couldn’t fathom why or how. “You’re not seriously --- I can’t believe it. You actually think I’m the father.”

“Not gonna lie, Rogers. This stuff doesn’t just happen.”

“Well, I’m _not_ , okay?” Steve threw out his arms, standing up at the same time. He felt his ears flush with anger and resentment at being accused of this. And the embarrassment. Not just the fact that he might’ve been a...a _father_ , but that he’d also hide it. “Is that good enough for you, or do you need a blood sample now?”

“Unfortunately,” Fury turned his gaze to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he observed the landscape of Washington D.C. It was a rather beautiful day to be wasted on this topic. “Columbia declined to offer any DNA samples, and what we gathered from scenes hasn’t been enough to tell us what we want to know. It also doesn’t help that _you_ won’t give us a sample, either.”

“A fact not likely to change.” Steve replied. He had made very sure to protect his privacy when he rejoined SHIELD the previous year. There were going to be no mistakes this time. He wasn’t going to let anyone try to abuse the serum again.

“Be that as it may,” Fury said, a little tense. “We still have to investigate. I trust you enough not to lie to me about this.”

“Because I’m not.”

“Are you sure?” Fury glanced at him over his shoulder.

Steve paused. “What do you mean?”

“Are you _absolutely_ _sure_ that there is no possibility that you could’ve ever fathered a child in the ninety-odd years you’ve been on this Earth?”

“What do you want me to say? That I dug myself out of the ice to have a kid and then went back until you guys found me later?” Steve shot back. He may be old, but his memory was as sharp as ever, and he’d be damned if he’d let something like this slip under the rug. The simple matter was this was completely illogical. Impossible, even.

“And have you ever met Rebel Columbia?”

“No.”

“So until today, from the moment you woke up in last year the possibility of you having a child never occurred to you?”

“Should it have?” Steve demanded, glaring at Fury. He was getting particularly annoyed with all these questions, especially now that he was getting the feeling that Fury knew more than he was letting on. Which would be par for the course. “I don’t even know her name! Do _you_?”   

Fury opened his mouth, paused, then withdrew. He turned away from Steve, which was enough of an answer he needed. Tucking his arms behind his back, Fury walked to the window and gazed out over the DC skyline. “We’re still working on building her file. But I think its safe to say that the resemblance? A little _too_ uncanny if you ask me. How do you plan to deal with this?”

“Me?” Steve raised his eyebrows, at first defensive before understanding it was a serious, and honest question. “I don’t know. Stark’s given me a call, and I know I have to follow up on it… I want to see her. I do.”

“Good,” Fury nodded once, and only now began to look faintly pleased. “If she’s anything like you, then I can already guess how much trouble she’ll cause. Cut that off at the pass. See if you can get down to the bottom of this whole mystery. Paternity test or not, I gotta make sure there aren’t any other super soldiers running around that I don’t know about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This was originally how I was going to open Bitter Protocol, a sort of Prologue like last time, but by the time I finished Rebel Columbia I had a better idea of how I wanted to start the sequel, so this scene got scrapped. It was also a bit too jarring, as we don’t really return to Steve’s POV for a while, and I was afraid this would make him too unsympathetic. Its ultimately not canon as I don’t have the media jumping on the whole ‘Captain America’s a Baby-Daddy’ thing going on, but I like to think that Steve and Fury had a similar conversation to this, before Steve sees Mia on his own.]


	2. First Christmas

**First Christmas**

* * *

Hedy couldn’t take her eyes off the tiny little bundle in her arms.

It was near midnight, warm city lights flashing past the steamed windows, hazy and oneiric. The taxi drove through slush, Silent Night by Nat King Cole playing on the radio. His soft crooning swelled with the overwhelming joy in Hedy’s chest, her fingers tracing the rosy cheeks of her child. Her little fighter. Her daughter.

It had been a harrowing year. Born premature on Valentine’s Day, it seemed only right that Amelia could finally come home on Christmas Eve. Months in incubation, as her tiny, frail little body struggled to breathe, struggled to pump the ounce of blood in her veins.

Hedy still remembered when Amelia had first opened her eyes — two bright blue irises meeting Hedy’s. Now, Amelia dozed, snoring softly. Her eyes were already fading to a soft gray.

Humming to the soft notes, Hedy rocked the swaddled child back and forth. The pink cloth glowed red and green under the passing Christmas decorations outside. A lock of blonde hair stuck out, a slight curl — Hedy smiled to herself. She kept looking for her own features in Amelia, and at first hadn’t seen any. But as the weeks passed, she saw hints. Of herself, and the father.

A cold sensation cooled in her gut. There was no one else waiting for them at home. No one to share this child with. Hedy closed her eyes, taking a deep, shaking breath. At twenty-one years old, she hardly felt prepared to raise a child. On her own on top of it all.

But there was nothing she could do about it now. Hedy opened her eyes. She curled the tiny lock of hair around her finger. No, she could do this. She didn’t need anyone else.

Just Amelia.

She just needed Amelia.

The taxi squeaked to a stop. Getting out, Hedy stares up at the black monolith that was her home. College classes started again in a few weeks. Could she still do both? Hedy wasn’t sure anymore. Amelia felt a lot more…real now.

It was a long walk up those steps. She took care not to jostle her little bundle. Amelia was still so small. Too small. She still found it hard to look away, as if Amelia might simply disappear if she did.

It was a hassle to unlock the door with bag and baby in arms, but the door finally breaking open was a relief. The apartment was entirely quiet, the neighbors fast asleep. She sighed, leaning against the door and shutting it behind her. Bag fell unceremoniously to the floor. Her little apartment was cramped, dark, with only the aluminum Christmas tree, blinking softly, to welcome her home.

And the light on the phone. Hedy remembered with a jolt the messages that Richard had left on the answering machine. He was busy, too, with Peter now. His presence, and Mary’s, was a kind reminder. Maybe she wasn’t entirely alone.

In her arms, Amelia shifted, cooing softly — still fast asleep, she yawned and nestled back into the cloth.

And to think, the doctors had said she hadn’t stood a chance of surviving. That Hedy might’ve never been able to bring her home at all.

Hedy slid to the floor, a sudden burning behind her eyes. Years of exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. The uncertain future ahead that had dread coiling in her gut.

But for the moment, it abated, as the clock struck midnight. Hedy smiled softly, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Amelia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A request on tumblr that I did back in December 2018, trapped in an airport late at night and listening to Christmas music. Was definitely going for an atmospheric thing here].


	3. Brick and Mortar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is, by far, the dumbest thing you've ever done."

**Bricks and Mortar**

* * *

 

Amelia frowned, studying the blood and broken skin across the bridge of Peter’s nose. Sitting on the edge of the sink, Amelia tilted his chin up so the light hit his face at a better angle. He flinched as she dabbed it with a cotton ball dabbed in saline. “Ow!”

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting!”

“Yes, you are. Stop it!” Amelia had to grab his shoulder to keep him from moving any further away from him. “If you didn’t want me to look at it, you shouldn’t have gotten punched in the first place. Explain to me again how you got beat up by an old lady.”

Peter heaved a sigh. Beneath his yellow Midtown jacket, he wore his spidey suit — he had only arrived minutes before, looking a little more battered than usual, and smelling like old candy and hairspray. But that was nothing compared to his freely bleeding nose and the two beautiful black bruises forming under each eye, revealed when he had taken off his mask.

Amelia had hoped that it had been from stopping drug traffickers or street thugs. Instead…

“Some jerk tried to steal her purse. They were struggling for it outside the Circle K. I didn’t see anyone else coming to help, so I thought I’d jump in,” Peter winced again as I grazed one of his black eyes. “So, you know, I swing down there, right? But by the time I do, I realize the guy’s already given up trying to steal the purse — he’s on the ground and she’s just beating him with it, screaming at him in Portugeuse. I tried to get her to stop, grab her bag, but instead, she hits  _ me!” _

To emphasize the point, he jabbed both hands at his injuries. “Right in the face! Turns out, her purse is filled with bricks! I had to find that one out first hand. The gas station manager had to call the police on her before she killed us both!”

Amelia just stared at him, utterly baffled. “So in trying to help an innocent, you ended up saving the thief, and got your ass handed to you by an old lady.”

“They’re not as harmless as they look!  _ Bricks _ , Mia!”

That made her laugh, shaking her head. “Peter, this is, by far, the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.” 

Peter attempted to roll his eyes, but winced again when the effort proved to be more painful than it was worth. He just sighed, slumping back against the mirror and lifting the ice pack she’d gotten him to his forehead. “Not nearly as dumb as the time I sent a candy gram to Liz Allen, back in ninth grade.”

Amelia threw him a skeptical look. “How is that dumber?”

“Because the candy gram was Ned.”

“Oh,” Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Not gonna lie, I’m glad I missed that one.”

Peter laughed, soft and wheezing, then made a face. “Ow. I think she cracked a couple ribs, too.”

He turned to examine his reflection in the mirror, then back to Amelia with a lopsided, hopeful grin. “You think Aunt May will notice?”

“What? Nooo,” She didn’t have the heart to tell him the inevitable. She smiled back, forced and weak. “You’re...fine. Totally fine.”

“Well, at least I’m smarter than I look, right?” Peter said, so naively reassured. When Amelia failed to respond, however, his brow furrowed. “Right, Mia?”

Amelia didn’t answer. Instead, she panicked, and dabbed his nose again with the cotton ball. Peter yelped, and quickly forgot the question.

They’d be lucky if only one of them got grounded tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on the prompt given by @iceandwaterfairytail on tumblr :) So I wrote some fluff? I guess that's what you call it lmao. Thanks!


	4. Ghost Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So this scene happens concurrently with Chapter 10 in Bitter Protocol, so the events here might not make sense if you haven't already read up to that chapter yet!

* * *

**Ghost Stories**

* * *

"Hey, Romanov," Steve began, his tone casual. "Have you heard of anyone called the Winter Soldier?"

The two of them stood in the main bay, in the rear of the quinjet. The portholes revealed only a dark night sky — right now, it'd be early afternoon in Washington D.C. The Pacific drifted by somewhere beneath them. Both of them were dressed in dark suits; Natasha in her usual black, coupled with her widow's bite gauntlets; Steve himself was wearing a dark blue/grey version of his usual uniform, sans the bright red and white that might be a little distracting while entering a stealth operation.

Behind them milled the STRIKE team, muttering amongst themselves. Steve glanced over his shoulder to make sure they wouldn't be overheard, before turning back to Natasha for her answer.

"...Sure." She cut him an odd look, adjusting her glove straps. "How did you hear about that name?"

"So he exists?" Steve asked, a little too quickly.

He had tried to go for something light-hearted, completely nonchalant, but he knew he had killed any sort of facade as soon as those words left his mouth.

Natasha's lips curled into a smirk. "In a manner of speaking. Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. The ones that do think he's a myth. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last  _fifty_  years. At best, it's a legacy codename, used by different agents to cover their tracks. Where did you hear about him?"

 _Old news._ Steve knew this already, from the trembling and broken words Amelia had traded with him earlier that morning. Steve still felt terrible for leaving her behind in that state, but he was determined to make it up to her.

Namely, by getting to the bottom of this Winter Soldier business.

And pray that what she said about Bucky wasn't true.

But he couldn't tell Natasha any of that. To be honest, a part of him still felt he couldn't quite trust her. Not with everything, at least. Mia was too personal, and to be honest he felt protective of her, and knew that if she found out he told SHIELD, she might not forgive him. Steve didn't forget that her first (and supposedly last) encounter with the agency had interesting results.

Needless to say, Amelia was not a fan. And Steve needed her trust, needed to keep it. Not just because he wanted to learn more, but for the simple fact that she was important to him.

He wasn't happy with this course, and he  _did_  want to tell Nat — but not when they were in the presence of a STRIKE team, not when they were aboard one of SHIELD's airships. Steve decided that if, and when, he let Natasha in on everything, it would be on safer ground.

So Steve lied with an easy smile. "Oh, just heard some newbies talking about it and got curious."

"Hm," Natasha pressed her lips together in a return smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's just something they teach the youngblood so they have a healthy fear of the unknown. Our greatest threat is never knowing what we don't know."

It was a fair point. Steve held the notion that SHIELD was overconfident in its apparent omniscience. "So SHIELD doesn't know anything about him?"

Natasha blinked. "Your relentless curiosity never ceases to amaze me, Rogers."

He just shrugged. "What can I say? I think it's… intriguing."

"Right," Natasha smirked again, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms. She cocked an eyebrow. "Well, since you asked… the Winter Soldier's a ghost. All we can say for sure is that it's male, Soviet in origin. And even that's just a guess. The deaths attributed to him — or them — have largely been to America's detriment, or to Russia's gain. As you can guess, it's probably not a coincidence. Some deaths are just mysterious. Some come back with bullets with no rifling. I've heard stories of tall, dark-haired men that might've been him, lurking on a rooftop or grassy knoll… there's been some wild theories, though. That he's a god, or a spirit you can summon. An immortal killer with unknown allegiances. Hell, even an alien out to exterminate the human race."

"I heard he had a metal arm, too."

Natasha blinked. "That's not in any file."

His smile froze. Dammit. Steve knew he was pushing too hard. But he didn't know who else to ask. What was he supposed to say, that he heard it from his traumatized kid in the middle of a panic attack?  _Just another day in the life of Captain America._

"Like you said," Steve tried to play it off. "Wild rumors."

Natasha just chuckled, shaking her head to herself, but something had changed. It was almost imperceptible, but Steve was starting to pick up on her tics. On a trained spy they were hard to find, but a trained spy was never supposed to know someone as long as they'd known each other. "So, do anything fun on Saturday nights?"

Steve cast her a wan smile, but didn't bite. Firstly, they both knew the answer to that — which was no. Steve didn't have much of a social life. Secondly, they  _both_  knew what Natasha was trying to do. Changing the subject.

He had grown wise to when her shoulders were tense, or when her eyes narrowed just a fraction. Nostrils flaring, fingers tightening in a slow fist, before releasing again.

Did she already know about the metal arm? How? If it wasn't in any file...

Steve had known that, too. In fact, when he tried to access the said file, all he got was half-a-page's worth of conspiracy and speculation.

But nothing about a metal arm.

Which left one possible conclusion.

Natasha had seen the Winter Soldier for herself.

Which meant Mia was right. The Winter Soldier was real. A cold chill flowed through his veins.

But why would Natasha keep it a secret? It felt like a stupid question, but if she had run into him after she became a SHIELD agent, why wasn't there a record of it?

What was she hiding? What did she know?

He'd seen the fear in Amelia's eyes. That whatever she saw was no ghost. That a metal-armed assassin was out there, somewhere still. A man, a killer with Bucky's face.

That revelation had sent Steve reeling — he'd only barely managed to hide it in front of Mia, worried it'd make her more upset. A part of him was horrified at the concept that Bucky had been turned into this…  _thing_ , this monster. Steve was almost too afraid to believe it. Nothing she described could be attributed to the man Steve had known since childhood, his best friend who used to forgo meals so his younger siblings could eat. Hell, so  _Steve_  could eat, sometimes.

And that was everything besides the sheer logistics. It just couldn't be possible. No man would have survived that fall from the train, in the dead of winter, in hostile territory.

Steve frowned to himself, a line creasing his brow.  _But a super soldier might_ …

"Hey, Cap, you doin' alright?" Rumlow appeared at his side, throwing Steve a curious look. He had a parachute strapped to his back, rifle hanging across his chest. "Looking a little green around the gills there. Hope you don't get seasick."

"Its nothing," Steve replied, smoothing his features for a smile. "Just hoping we can get all those agents off the  _Lemurian Star_  in one piece."

Rumlow just grinned. "Eye on the ball as always, Cap."

Above them, red lights began to flash, right before the bay doors opened beneath them. Far below was the endless black expanse of ocean — and in the center, the glittering lights of a single ship, adrift in the waters.

As Steve kicked his senses into gear, slipping his helmet on, he couldn't shake the insidious thought creeping through his mind.

Was Bucky  _alive_?

He didn't want to believe it. It was easier not to believe. Denial was a tempting notion, but Steve had long since come to terms with the fact that his best friend was dead.

Or so he thought.

The dread he felt was palpable.

But so was the  _hope_.

And it scared him.

Taking a deep breath, Steve steeled his nerves. Then, with one last casual remark over his shoulder, he jumped out of the quinjet.

No parachute and all.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

The catwalk felt miniscule in the presence of the helicarriers before him. Steve felt a mixture of awe and trepidation, perhaps even horror, looking upon them. He couldn't help but think that technology of this magnitude would fit in perfectly in the utopian-dystopian worlds of George Orwell.

He kept pace with Nick Fury as they walked the perimeter of one very long wall in the massive hangar. Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from the huge metal behemoths. They had to be right under the Potomac, he thought to himself. 30 million square feet of water rushing over their heads. The din of construction hid whatever noise the river might have made, but Steve was highly aware of the silent threat that hovered above. One mistake, and Fury's magnum opus would be swallowed up like the lost city of Atlantis.

"...Rogers? Rogers?" Fury's voice brought Steve back to the present. The older man made a sound of annoyance. "Were you listening to a thing I've said?"

"Sorry," Steve bowed his head, sincere. He may not like this Project Insight, but he still respected Director Fury and the kind of person he had to be to get that position. "I was just, er, thinking."

Fury just scoffed, but it was surprisingly good-natured, and shook his head to himself. "Of course. I shouldn't have bothered to ask —"  
"Have you heard of the Winter Soldier?" Steve couldn't help himself. Cutting Fury off in mid-sentence, the question just flew from his lips before Steve could really think through the consequences of this. Natasha was one thing. But Fury…?

The aftermath of the  _Lemurian Star_  told Steve that he had underestimated Natasha, and knew much less than he thought he did about her. Or about SHIELD, which was why Fury was now down here, showing him their latest infringement on American rights. Not even Americans — the whole world, truly.

But even in light of all this, Steve knew that if anyone could give him an answer, it would be Fury. Maybe he'd say what mission Natasha had been on that would've gotten her in the Winter Soldier's crosshairs. Maybe he knew why she wouldn't talk about it.

Maybe he could discern whether her true allegiance lay with SHIELD, or her fellow Avengers. It seemed every new thing that happened in SHIELD gave Steve another reason not to trust them or anyone involved.

Nick Fury stopped in his tracks. His expression was suddenly impenetrable. "The Winter Soldier doesn't exist."

Steve came to a stop as well, facing him. "That was fast."

It was almost as if Fury had been expecting the question. He didn't appear confused or caught off guard. That just made Steve all the more suspicious.

Fury tilted his bald head, not falling for the sarcastic bait. "I don't play games with every rumor and conspiracy theory that knocks on my door, Rogers. SHIELD deals with threats it can manage, actionable intelligence. What SHIELD has on the Winter Soldier is all that's known about him. Anywhere."

"You've been monitoring my search history?" Steve demanded, but at once it made sense. It explained Fury's coolness, the unruffled attitude.

"And I know what Romanov told you when you asked her the same question," Fury said without hesitation. Of course he wasn't above spying on his own people, either. Was no one safe from SHIELD's penetrating gaze? "Those accredited kills she mentioned? Were just as easily held accountable to someone else, someone with an actual name and face. There was no man on the grassy knoll."

Steve struggled to rein in the retort he has on his mind. Just because this conversation wasn't going the way he wanted it to didn't mean he had to show his entire hand. So, keeping his expression impassive, Steve inhaled deeply from his nose, and didn't say a thing.

"So, Cap," Fury continued, shifting his weight so his feet stood shoulder-width apart, back straight and looking Steve straight in the eye. "Who are you going to ask next? Barton? Rumlow? My secretary? Why are you so caught up on this Winter Soldier?"

"What, you mean you don't know that answer already?" it was a jab at Fury's surveillance issues, and Project Insight. And a deflection from giving the truth.

Fury wasn't so easily thrown off course. "I want to make sure this isn't becoming a problem. I want you focused on the present, Rogers. Where did you even hear that name, anyways?"

Steve opened his mouth to answer, then stopped.  _He's fishing_ , Steve realized.  _Fury doesn't know._

For once, Fury didn't know something. Steve almost smiled.

It meant Fury didn't know Mia had told Steve. Possibly, he didn't know what Mia knew. While Fury had never said anything about her, Steve had a feeling SHIELD might be monitoring her. If they were, then she still managed to slip through the cracks from time to time.

_Our greatest threat is never knowing what we don't know._

Good.

If Fury didn't know where Steve heard it, then it meant that the Winter Soldier wasn't as common a rumor as he thought. And if Fury was trying to hard to find out, then it meant that Fury thought the Winter Soldier a greater threat than he was letting on.

"Oh, you know," Steve replied with the same ease Fury had used on him earlier, and turned away. "Just rumors and conspiracy theories."

He could feel Fury's gaze burning a hole into his back as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I kind of wanted to put this in the fic itself, but until I can think of a more seamless way to switch POV its going here for the moment xD


	5. Responsibility

**Responsibility**

* * *

Cold March rain pattered against the windshield, wipers sliding back and forth in a slow, thumping rhythm. The only light in the 1994 Toyota Corolla was the dashboard, the Nokia's screen, and the red light glaring overhead.

Benjamin Parker sighed, finger tapping his steering wheel as he waited for the light to change.

Hedy heard it over the phone. " _I'm sure Peter's fine, Ben. He's only fourteen, how much trouble is he going to get into_?"

"He's been getting into fights at school. His new school! He's been moody for weeks now," Ben replied, unable to hide his disbelief. The school Peter had worked so hard to get into, and was now on suspension for breaking another boy's nose. Ben could only guess as to the reason for it, but he had a pretty good idea. "Well, he's been moody for a while. Ever since…"

He couldn't finish. Hedy didn't speak for a long moment.

"I know," she murmured.

Ben closed his eyes in a wince, then remembered what he was doing, and they flew open again. "Just let me know if you spot him, okay?"

"Of course," she said. "Good luck, Ben. Let me know how it goes."

"Right."

The drive went on in silence. Ben was grateful for Hedy's solidarity, but he thought better when he was alone, and he didn't want to burden his sister further. He couldn't bear the thought of having to call with more bad news.

The Parkers had already lost enough.

All the while, Ben couldn't help but mentally kick himself. It was his fault Peter had run out of the apartment like that. If Ben had only been softer, been quieter, had just  _listened_ … maybe he wouldn't be out searching for Peter in the middle of the night.

Ben knew his nephew. He knew Peter was a brilliant,  _brilliant_  boy. He was special, he had greatness in him. That's what all parents said about their kids, but Ben was sure about this; he was more sure than anything else. Ben also knew, that as smart as Peter was, he didn't have much common sense.

It was probably for that reason that Ben would find Peter in a gas station convenience store, in the bad part of town.

All it took was one lucky glimpse of that red hoodie and mussed hair through the glass door. Ben slammed the brakes so suddenly, in the middle of the road, that he nearly caused a collision with the car that was cruising behind him. Giving a wincing, apologetic wave to the other driver, Ben quickly turned off the road and pulled in by one of the pumps. Aside from his car, the place was completely empty.

The door jingled softly as Ben entered; the cashier didn't look up from his TV from his perch behind the counter.

Peter, who seemed to be lost in thought in the chips aisle, did not notice Ben when he approached. It wasn't until Ben finally spoke — "There you are!" — did the boy jump, almost right out of his socks. He spun around, staring at Ben wide-eyed for a moment, face flushing with the guilt at having been caught. Then, perhaps finding his gumption, Peter scowled and turned his back on Ben, putting his attention back on the Pringles without another word.

Realizing that this was going to need a delicate touch ( _God, May's so much better at this_ ), Ben heaved a sigh, and took a step back. He showed his palms as a sign of no hostility. "I'm sorry, Peter, I didn't mean to startle you."

No response from Peter. He looked like a drowned rat, his clothes completely soaked. His hair dripped, too, water droplets hanging to the edge of curling hair. He was shivering slightly, but his jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line. Trying to suffer through it without complaint.

Without asking, Ben pulled off his coat, and placed it over Peter's shoulders. Peter just shrugged it off.

Ben stared at his coat on the floor for a moment, before picking it up again. He didn't put it back on. "I'm sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have yelled at you back home. I let the conversation get heated and didn't think of how you were feeling."

Peter didn't move.  
Ben sighed. There was no beating around the bush this time around. "Please talk to me, Pete. I know something else is going on. Not just the fight at school. Did something happen to you, something you never told us about?"

Nothing.

Ben didn't know what else to do. Giving up was not in his nature, but Pete could be just as stubborn as him. Just that bit of Parker in the both of them. But surrender might be his only choice. "Alright, Pete. We don't have to talk. But I'd like you to come home with me. May's losing her mind with worry; she's this close to calling the police."

Peter shivered; maybe a wince, or maybe he was just cold. When Ben lifted the coat again, Peter quickly side-stepped away. He kept his head turned, so Ben couldn't read his face. But his words were mumbled, resentful, when he finally spoke.

"I didn't mean to do it." the words were barely more than a whisper. "Flash just made me… so mad."

Ben nodded quietly. He knew all about Flash Thompson, Peter's nemesis. The kid wasn't much more than a punk, and by all rights the two were more or less evenly matched. But Thompson was from a very well-to-do family, and wasn't afraid of flaunting it. Peter never made a lot of beef about that aspect of Flash's character, but he always wondered if Flash's privileged upbringing ever made Peter feel somehow lesser.

Unfortunately, Ben had never figured out a tactful way to ask. There was a good chance he'd phrase it wrong, make Peter feel even worse; but Ben just wanted him to know that there was no shame in being working class. Hell, there was no shame in being  _poor_. The Parkers were the kind of family who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. They took pride in the dirt under their nails, for every dollar they earned. The sweat on their brow belonged to no one but themselves.

Most of all, Parkers looked out for each other. They were never alone. Ben for Hedy, Hedy for Ben, and Ben for Peter.

If only he knew how to say it.

At length, Ben finally spoke. He cleared his throat, glancing away so Peter wouldn't feel accused. "I've noticed, a little bit, that you've been pretty… well, intense these past few weeks."

"I'm just so angry! All the time," It came out in a sudden burst, startling Ben. Strained words in a broken voice. Peter rubbed at his eyes; his face had dried, so it wasn't rainwater slipping down his cheeks. He sniffed and choked words followed. "I-it never goes away. Nothing I do makes it better. Nothing except —"

" — Taking it out on someone?" Ben finished skeptically. Peter hung his head in shame, slumping against the rack, back still turned.

"He made me do it," Peter mumbled, dragging his sleeve under his nose. "He was asking for it."

"He didn't make you do anything, Pete," Ben admonished sternly. That was an excuse that would never fly under his roof. "Punching him was a choice.  _Your_  choice. You can't control Flash, Peter. The only thing you can control is your reaction."

"Are you quoting someone again?" Peter asked, sounding annoyed.

He probably was, but Ben couldn't be assed to remember who it was.

"It doesn't matter. You can't keep doing this, Peter." Ben said quietly, so the cashier wouldn't overhear the conversation. He leaned against the shelving, looking down at his nephew, hoping Peter would deign to meet his gaze. "I know it's not easy, but you've already worked so hard for this. Don't throw it all away because some minor league bully thinks they've got something on you. You gotta remember, with —"

"No power without responsibility, I know," Peter groaned, his head falling back in deep aggravation. His eyes were squeezed shut. "You say it all the time."

"That version's little paraphrased," Ben made a face, then shrugged, conceding. "But sure. Can we both agree, at least, that what you did was wrong?"

Peter glowered at the shelf in front of him. After a long moment, he muttered with great reluctance. "Yes."

Ben relaxed a little. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "If you could go back, what would you have done differently?"

"I guess…" Peter make a face. " _Not_  breaking Flash's nose."

Had he not been in parenting mode, Ben might've let himself laugh. As it was, he struggled to hide a smile, glad for the darkness, before shaking his head. "Try again, Pete."

Peter sighed, his shoulders drooping, and he screwed up his lips as he gave it actual thought this time. "I would've… walked away, I guess. But… but he was picking on this other kid, Ben! This sick little kid who would've been completely defenseless if I left!"

Ben furrowed his brow. This was starting to sound awfully familiar. "...Ah."

They never talked about what happened last year. Not really, not in any complete way. Ben knew Peter was hurting —  _still_  hurting. It wasn't a kind of hurt that you could fix with a band-aid or a good joke. It had to mend on its own. But Ben was no stranger to loss. He knew that sometimes, wounds never healed. Never fully. And his heart ached to think that Peter might never recover from this.

But that still wasn't an excuse to be punching other kids.

"I bet it gets pretty overwhelming, huh," Ben said, trying once more to put the coat around Peter's shoulders. Peter frowned for a moment, appearing to consider removing it again, but this time remained still. Stiff as a board, sure, but at least looking a little warmer. "Being so angry all the time, you start to feel helpless. Like there's nothing you can do. And so you do anything to change it."

Peter scowled at the floor. He hugged himself with his arms, and shrugged. "I guess."

"And I bet punching Flash felt pretty good."

"Yeah," Peter smirked slightly, but it melted away in the next instant. "Then I felt bad. And my hand started to hurt."

That was almost a relief to hear. Peter still had his conscience. Ben studied the bandage across Peter's knuckles on his right hand; May had done that, when they had first gotten home. "If you knew it was wrong, why were you so angry when we talked about it?"

"Because I got in trouble, and Flash got  _nothing_!" Peter spoke in a hushed rant, gesturing manically with his hands. "He's been picking on this kid for months now, but  _I'm_  the one suspended for finally sticking up to him. It's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, sometimes," Ben replied. He probably should've said  _all the time_. Judging by the look on Peter's face, that response wasn't very helpful. Of course, Peter was already well-aware that life wasn't fair. Flash had always been the perfect indicator for that, even before this incident.

So Ben added, "Maybe that kid didn't need a hero, Pete. Maybe he just needed a friend."

Peter furrowed his brow, rolling his bottom lip under his teeth. He worried at it for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Pfft, doesn't matter anyways," He kicked at the floor. "Ned told me the other kid's parents are pulling him out of Midtown."

Ben folded his arms. "So it was all for nothing."

A dark look crossed Peter's face. He didn't speak.

Sighing again, Ben ran a hand through his hair. Progress had been made, but he wasn't sure how much. "You weren't in the wrong, Peter. What you did was brave. But your method wasn't right. Lashing out, even for a good cause, isn't going to work. If you have the chance to do something, to do the right thing, that no one else is willing or capable of doing, doesn't entitle you to react however you want. You're smart enough to know when you have power; you just need to understand how to use it well, Pete."

He finished this, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder and giving him an encouraging squeeze.

"You don't get it, Ben," Peter said quietly. "It's not just about Flash. It's more than that. It's… it's about me."

Ben frowned, slightly baffled. "What do you mean?"

Peter had gone very still; panic flashed across his face, before it was gone again. Peter hunched up his shoulders, and shook his head. "...Never mind. Forget it." He pushed past Ben, walking out of the aisle and towards the exit.

"No, Peter, wait," Ben called after him, growing more bewildered. He had a sneaking suspicion there was something else behind all of this, but until now he had no actual proof. Now curiosity,  _concern_ , clawed at him. Something was wrong with Peter, that wasn't just about Flash or last year, or anything Ben knew about. "Just wait a moment —"

He stepped out of the aisle just as Peter was approaching the door. But the boy was suddenly knocked back, caught by surprise, when someone else entered.

A man in a dark coat, soaked with rain. A hat pulled low over his eyes. He didn't even glance at Peter, who recoiled at the impact, stumbling back until he bumped into Ben. The man fixed his gaze first on the cashier, then on Ben. A shiver went down his spine as his eyes connected to a dark, cold gaze.

The man tilted his head. "Is that your car out there, sir?"

In his hand, a gun.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Based on the prompt “You can’t keep doing this.” that I got from fantasiame on tumblr (:
> 
> I guess you could call this my headcanon of how Ben died in the MCU-verse. It's why I left mention of non-canon/OC characters to a minimum, as I wanted to emphasize Ben's character and his relationship to Peter, and how/why he's the crux to Peter taking on the mantle of Spider-Man. As for the "cliffhanger" more or less, I didn't want to retread old ground with Ben's murder and Peter's reaction to it; its covered in Rebel Columbia, and I didn't want it to get redundant, or dragged out.
> 
> Also, Ben just didn't get as much love as I wanted him to in my fic, so this is me making up for it lol.


	6. The Woods

**The Woods**

* * *

" _Oh, nothing. I just never heard you laugh before."_

Wanda tittered next to him. "It sounds weird."

Amelia had laughed, that same strange, bright, slightly rasping sound. There was ash all over her face. No doubt they, too, were filthy. "Wow, I don't think I've actually laughed in two years. Isn't it amazing! We're free! And they said nobody ever leaves the Crucible alive."

"I don't care what they said," Pietro crowed with wild, irreverent abandon, and threw his arms up in the air. "It doesn't mean shit! Ha!"

With that, he spun around, taking Wanda with him. She shrieked with joy as he whirled around, lifting her up off her feet so she swung around in the air as he spun in place — just like they used to do when they were kids, playing in the yard and roughhousing when they had nothing better to do. Their mother had never liked it, but their father had always laughed at their antics, seeing it as nothing more than innocent fun.

"Put me down!" Wanda called, even as she hiccuped with laughter. Pietro just spun her faster, laughing maniacally.

How far away their childhood seemed now, Pietro thought to himself. For the first time ever, he finally felt like a  _boy_  again.

"What do you think, Amelia?" he called, still spinning. Amelia was little more than a pale blur in the wintry woods as the twins went around and around. "Should I let her go?"

"Yes!" Wanda shouted.  
  
"No!" Amelia said. "If you let her go now, she'll go flying!"

"No!" And just like that, Wanda changed her tune. "Don't let me go!"

"Alright!" Pietro said with a terrible grin. He didn't slow down. "Letting go!"

"Pietro, don't you dare!" Wanda cried, her grip on his arms tightening as his loosened. " _No, no, no_ — !"

With a whoop, he tossed her up. Wanda shrieked again, limbs flailing as she flew in a high arc, before dropping into a huge, powdery drift. A plume of snow exploded upon landing.

Laughing, Pietro ran over to her, as Wanda surged out of the snow, face red and furious. But her anger quickly abated, even as Amelia was cackling, clutching her stomach. "Oh, very funny, laugh it up —"

The gunshots came out of nowhere.

One second, they were laughing, cheering, dancing with glee.

The next, Amelia had collapsed, smile still printed on her face.

Wanda screamed. It shot through the air, through his head. Pain followed as Wanda's horror filtered into him.

" _No, no, no, no —!_ "

Pietro acted instinctively. Muscles kicking into high gear, his blood quickened and her fall slowed. He was at her side in an instant, catching Amelia before she could hit the ground. As soon as his hands touched her back, they were covered in blood.

"Amelia, can you hear me?" He said, but Amelia could only stare up at him in shock. As if she couldn't quite understand what was happening. Pietro could barely understand himself; his words were a frantic jumble as he dropped to his knees, still clutching onto her. "Please stay with me! Don't give up, you're going to be fine —"

He looked up at the offender, teeth gritted. A  _Vulkan,_  gun in his hand. Pietro didn't remember his name. Didn't want to. The man leveled the gun towards Pietro. Before either could do anything, red energy struck the man in the chest.

 _Through_  him.

Red hot, burning plasma ripping a hole in the  _Vulkan's_  chest. The impact sent him flying. When he landed, far away, he did not get back up again.

In the back of Pietro's mind, he was reeling. He knew his sister was powerful — stronger than him, at least. But he had no idea she could do  _that_.

At the moment, however, he couldn't ponder on it. Right now, their friend was dying in his arms.

Her eyes had already started turning glassy, her face pale and draining. Her breath came out in sharp, quick gasps. Eyes wide, flicking back and forth in a panic, trembling hand gripping the front of his shirt. He did not need Wanda's ability to know how Amelia felt in that moment.

Fear.

Already, her grip was weakening, breathing turning shallow. He held onto her, cold skin turning colder, not knowing what to do.

A lump formed in his throat; Pietro had never felt so useless. He didn't know what to do. Crunching footsteps, fast, and Wanda was next to him, hand on his shoulder. Ever the older brother, Pietro had never once put her on the spot, never once wanted to burden her with a terrible responsibility.

But for the first time, he found himself looking at his sister, completely helpless. "Save her."

Wanda's eyes were wide, glittering with tears. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they had turned as white as the snow around him. The first time he turned to her for help, and she could only shake her head. As helpless as he was.

Her gaze turned towards Amelia, whose eyes had started to flutter deliriously. Her grip had come loose from his shirt, but he grabbed her hand, holding onto it for her.

Wanda's voice was broken. She could see what Pietro couldn't. "I can make it go away. So it doesn't hurt anymore."

It took Pietro a moment to realize she wasn't talking to him, but to Amelia. There was no indication that Amelia had heard either of them. Wanda reached out, took Amelia's hand that Pietro was holding.

Something seemed to click. Amelia blinked once. Her eyes refocused.

A single word. " _Go_."

An understanding. An agreement. Wanda nodded once, and pressed her hand to Amelia's forehead. Her fingers flickered red, crackled over Amelia's face. Her pupils turned to pinpricks.

Pietro watched as Amelia's eyes closed. Opened again.

Blank.

"You're going to be okay," he whispered, an awful lie. His hand trembled as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

Her hand went limp in his.

Eyes open but unseeing.

It was a long moment before Pietro could move. At first, he refused to believe it. Freedom had been too close, so close on their tongues, for it to be taken away. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. They agreed to escape together, to get out alive as one. Either they lived free, or died fighting. Never to be a slave, a puppet, a weapon ever again.

A promise broken.

As he set her down, lying in the snow, his hand pulled back slick with blood. So warm. He was shaking, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Pietro," Wanda's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "We have to go. Come."

But he didn't move. He couldn't. He refused.

Pietro knew the danger. Amelia hadn't told them to go for nothing; they were still too close to the Crucible. The  _Vulkan_  would gather again and give chase once more. Leaving now would simply be pragmatic. It was survival.

But Pietro did not care for survival in that moment.

He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her behind.

Not after all that they had gone through.

Perhaps Wanda sensed his conviction, or perhaps had direct insight into what he was thinking, because she did not push him again. For a moment, Pietro thought she would simply run off without him, get a head-start. It wouldn't be unreasonable — he could always catch up later, and in much less time.

Instead, she began to sing.

Or, at least, Pietro thought it was singing. It was low at first, little more than a humming sound that began to take solid shape. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't Sokovian she was speaking. It took him a moment longer still to realize it wasn't singing, either.

"... _Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba b'alma di v'ra chirutei,"_ Her words were halting, slightly stammering. The language was old and unfamiliar — words that they had not heard in many, many years. " _Baagala uviz'man kariv, v'im'ru: Amen…"_

Hearing Wanda now, however, slammed Pietro with the memory of their father speaking the same words as he lit a tall candle, on a certain day every year. Pietro had never understood the importance of the date, not until now. In that moment, Pietro felt a terrible guilt at not having remembered the words as Wanda had — still, he recalled how his father once told him, the meaning of the words. The Mourner's Kaddish. A prayer for the deceased, a loved one, a family member.

" _Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach l'alam ul'almei almaya…"_ He wondered if Wanda knew the meaning of the words. He did not, although he had, once. A few sounded familiar, and he could almost recall the translation, but in that moment, his own grief made it too difficult to think on it for very long.

" _Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar v'yitromam v'yitnasei…"_

Pushing aside his guilt for a moment, he simply listened as Wanda spoke. Her words were choked, but he wasn't wrong in mistaking it for a song; although it was unpracticed, Wanda recited the prayer with a kind of lyricism that made it almost sound like a lullaby, so much like the kind their parents used to sing to them.

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Wanda was holding something in her other hand. A simple gold necklace.

A familiar one.

It was the locket she had from their father. The one with their grandparents photos within, black and white, ancient and tiny. Pietro stared at it for a moment, at the delicate chain wrapped around her fingers, the oval pendant swinging below her wrist. It was covered in scratches and a few small dents from years of wear and disuse, but to Pietro it looked incredible. He couldn't believe Wanda still managed to keep ahold of it. He thought they'd lost it years ago.

" _V'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal sh'mei d'kud'sha b'rich hu…"_

As Wanda continued, she reached for his hand, and Pietro took it without a word. He closed his eyes, and mouthed the words after her, wanting to do his part, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could remember, too.

" _L'eila min kol birchata v'shirata, tushb'chata v'nechemata, daamiran b'alma, v'imru:_   _Amen._ "

A silent understanding passed between them. This was their payment of respects, not just to their friend, but to the family they had lost so long ago. Wanda and Pietro never had much of a chance to grieve their parents, much less in the traditional way. They were only children. He felt Wanda wince as she stumbled over a few more words; he squeezed her hand, letting her know she was fine. It wasn't like Pietro could judge, at any rate. Getting the words right wasn't as important to him as the meaning of the gesture.

" _Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya, v'chayim aleinu v'al kol Yisrael, v'imru: Amen."_

In the back of his mind, Pietro remembered that while the purpose for the Kaddish was a sad one, the prayer itself was meant to be uplifting. He supposed that would have more of an effect on him, if he understood it. For now, at least, the prayer felt as sad and pained as he did.

" _Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu, v'al kol Yisrael, v'imru: Amen."_

"Amen," Pietro repeated, little more than a whisper. Wanda's voice echoed in the hollow of forest. It whistled quietly back, lonely and forlorn. There was no one here except for them and Amelia, whose gaze was towards the sky, open, gray and still.

Pietro let out a sigh, reaching over to close her eyes. He did not feel better. But he supposed he felt… calmer. Exhausted. His heart still writhed in pain and grief, fresh and raw, but the anger had abated. Pietro tried to find peace in the moment, although it was difficult. Someone was not truly dead until they were forgotten.

And he would not forget Amelia.

He did not know if there was anything besides time and, perhaps, a miracle that would ever allow him to fully overcome the totality of his experience in the Crucible. Everything before it, and what was yet to come.

Their journey was, unfortunately, not yet over.

But thanks to Amelia, they were still alive to endure it.

Neither sibling spoke. At last, Pietro stood, bringing Wanda up with him. They still held hands, tight and shaking. The cold was finally starting to seep in.

As one, the Maximoff twins turned, putting the body behind him. It felt like the hardest thing Pietro had ever done. Moreso than all the fighting, the torture, anything else the Crucible had put them through. This felt almost impossible.

But they did it anyways. Together.

Pietro forced himself not to look back. To look back was to admit regret, to show doubt, and now was not the time.

Instead, he picked up his sister, and started to run.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Based on a conversation with charmanderisacutie on tumblr about how the twins react to Mia's death. She suggested that they would recite the Mourner's Kaddish — based on the headcanon/lore that they're Jewish — which I thought was an amazing idea, so now this exists.
> 
> I understand that the transliteration is probably not a 100% accurate to how it's actually be spoken (I copied it from a website); I wasn't really sure how to copy the actual Hebrew text, and I didn't think it'd be as helpful to understand what it sounds like to someone (like me) who can't read it. I wanted this to be as respectful a portrayal of the prayer as I could, but please let me know if there's any improvements I can make. This is definitely not my area of expertise.
> 
> Also used a prompt ("I don't care what they said, it doesn't mean shit!") from fantasiame on tumblr to help kickstart this one shot.


	7. Incandescent Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: First draft version of some scenes early in Rebel Columbia. This version of Peter was Andrew Garfield's from Amazing Spider-Man, and had been a crossover with Avengers. Here are the scenes that I removed from the original draft, that established Mia's and Garfield!Peter's relationship. (These are no longer canon).
> 
> This and Part Two contains all the scenes of them together.

**Incandescent Part One**

* * *

_Fwap!_

My books tumbled to the floor, a mess of open binders and bent papers. My hands hung in the air, and I came to a sudden stop, too shocked to move.

Sharp, piercing laughter burst in my ear. I didn't look around, didn't have to. I already knew who it was. "Oh, no! What happened, Mia?"

I kept my gaze down. There was a swirl of legs around me, skirts and leggings and expensive jeans, all bright colors. Flip-flops and new sneakers to match the weather. I saw hands on hips, covered in bangles, in sweatbands and rubber bracelets, fingers adorned with pretty rings. Skin tanned and perfect, nails in matching shades.

Astor Sloane and her posse, Tracy, Simone, and Devon. The A-Team.

"Well, aren't you going to pick it up?" Astor asked, her voice too sweet. She stood directly in front of me, of course – with the others flanking her and taking up the entirety of my field of vision. I couldn't see anything beyond them, nothing over their shoulders. To my left was the hall, to my right the lockers. I didn't have anywhere to go, not without leaving my books there.

"Come on, clean up your mess," Simone said, pointing at the floor. Her nails were the longest of the four, manicured and tough as rocks. She liked to smack boys with them, leave marks after they've scorned her. "Don't be a slob!"

Tracy snickered. She was Astor's second-in-command, both on the field and off. When Astor wasn't around, she took charge. "I think that ship sailed as soon as she decided to put on that fugly sweater. Where'd you get it, Mia? The dumpster behind your apartment?"

"No," I mumbled, my hands retreating into the too-large sleeves. "It's my mom's."

"What?" Devon leaned in, hand at her ear. She spoke obnoxiously loud, over-enunciating like I was too slow to understand. "Sorry, I didn't catch that! You have to speak a little louder!"

"It's m-my..." I stumbled over my words, unable to finish my sentence. Trying to raise my voice only made it worse. My tongue seemed to thicken and I couldn't get past the anxiety pounding in my head. I just wanted to run away, hide and pretend nothing ever happened. "I – I'm not..."

You're not what?" Astor demanded, pushing me in the shoulder. She was the biggest girl – not fat, but rather she was the strongest. Came with the territory, I guess. You don't get to be captain of Midtown High's field hockey team by just sitting around. "A freak? Look at you! Clothes that don't fit, mousy hair that probably hasn't been washed in a week; and you do realize that you're only supposed to buy jeans pre-destroyed, right? You're not actually supposed to do it yourself."

My gaze dropped further down, to my feet. The knees of my pants were ripped; Mom was supposed to patch them up, but she'd been busy lately and hadn't had the time. Seeing my books, I bent down to pick them up, trying to ignore the titters as the girls stepped on my homework and left dirty footprints on my textbooks.

As I drew back up, I saw a hand fly in front of my face and I flinched, closing my eyes and expecting to get slapped. Instead, the glasses were yanked off my nose, and when I opened my eyes again the world had turned into a muddled blur. "Hey, give those back!"

"Oh, now she talks!" Devon laughed. I couldn't tell which one of them was holding my glasses. They were a transparent pink color that blended too well with the hazy world around me. "What's a freak going to do when she can't even see?"

"Ha, look at me, I'm Mia!" Astor said, and I could see her arms jerking around in a false imitation of my movements. She hunched over a little, as if to somehow mimic my lack of height, putting on a nasally voice and saying, "Wearing my big ol' grandma glasses and p-planning on my f-fut-future of Queen of the G-g-geeks!"

"I d-don't s-sound like th-that!" my voice started to waver as tears threatened to breach my eyes. I knew they were just being stupid, but I couldn't help what I felt. God, why did I have to be such a crybaby? "J-just stop, please!"

"Queen of the Geeks? Ha!" Simone shook her head. "She's not  _that_  special! Mia's about as interesting as old wallpaper."

I had to admit, that was a new one. No one's ever compared me to wallpaper before. I'd rather  _be_  wallpaper right now than have to deal with this. "Come on, j-just give-give me back my gl-glasses!"

I made a wild grab for them, but only ended up getting shoved back. Maybe they underestimated their strength, or maybe they were deliberately being mean, because the shove was hard enough to unbalance me and send me falling on my butt. My books scattered to the floor once more, and the air filled with another encore of laughter.

I swore I would've started bawling right then and there, with no care for pride at all, if someone else hadn't intervened at that next moment.

"Really, guys?" Even though I couldn't see them, I could recognize that voice anywhere. Peter. "Do you really have nothing better to do than wasting what little brain cells you have left by picking on a defenseless girl?"

I could see him, a bland shape taller than the girls, somehow maneuvering around them with inhuman speed. There was the sound of his skateboard rolling across tile. "Yoink!"

"Hey!" Astor complained when Peter somehow managed to snatch my glasses back. I knew this because they were back on my face a second later, and he was helping me back up to my feet. "Really, Puny Parker, you're gonna start playing hero now? You didn't learn when Flash stuffed you into a locker yesterday?"

"Well, if you think you can top him, give it your best shot," Peter said with a cocky grin, holding out his arms in offering. I couldn't believe it. Was he really going to let Astor hit him? Because she definitely looked like she was going to take him up on that, if her expression was anything to go by.

With the A-Team distracted, I went to pick up my books again, scooting back so I was standing behind Peter and out of the way of any further onslaught. He had his skateboard in one hand, camera in the other, arms held out like he expected a hug. "Aw, come on, no love for the nerds?"

Astor sneered and the girls stuck out their tongues in disgust, waving their hands and backing off. "Ugh, gross. I don't want to deal with a whole family of freaks."

"Yeah, we don't need you, anyways!" Peter called after them, thrusting his fist into the air. Then he scoffed and turned back to me, a crooked smile on his face, and bowed. "The Gorgons have been vanquished! They shall no longer torment you, milady."

"Ah, th-thank you, brave sir knight," I said, my voice wavering a little but getting stronger as I watched the A-Team disappear down the hall. I managed to put on a fake accent, if a rather bad one. Peter was better at this mock-play than I was. "But I'm afraid they will return again, and in greater numbers. We should, uh, go."

"What? Come on, there's still a couple minutes before the next bell rings," he pleaded, leaning against my locker as though blocking access to my stuff might convince me. Peter was a lot taller than me — taller than a lot of people, really, and he had the puppy-dog-look down pat. All big eyes and fluffy hair just made him look adorable enough to fool anyone into surrender.

But not for me. "And I'm going to need those minutes just to get there. You know I'm a slow walker."

"Ugh, I know!" Peter groaned, throwing his head back melodramatically. "It's one of the worst things about you. Why can't you be struck by lightning and get super speed or something, make my life easier?"

"Because the world revolves around Peter Parker." I rolled my eyes, but I knew he was only joking. Peter liked to act all theatrical to get a laugh out of me. As always, it worked.

"Duh," he said, swinging around me and flashing a smile. Peter could actually be pretty charismatic, if he just applied himself to people he wasn't related to. He hooked an arm around my neck and hauled me along, barely giving me enough time to slam my locker door shut. "But you're the only one who realizes that. And you're handling it pretty well, too, I think."

"Well, if you ever become emperor of the universe, remind me. You're going to need someone to set up your SkyNet," I said, ducking out and heading in the other direction, where my actual class was. I waved at him good-bye. "You're programming skills are crap!"

"We'll take over the world together!" Peter called, waving back before disappearing down the hall on his skateboard. He'd probably get a detention slip before he made it down the corner.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Ten minutes later, and I was still nervous.

Pacing back and forth outside the school doors, I had to remind myself to calm down before I gave myself a heart attack. I was a little young, but considering my current state of health, I certainly wouldn't put it outside the realm of possibility.

Why did Mr. Rand think I needed help? Did I just look like I needed it? I had never shown an interest in debating, arguing, or anything like that. What gave Mr. Rand the idea that I'd ever want to do that sort of thing? I specifically avoided speaking in front of an audience unless I had absolutely no choice.

I thought it was a little weird how he mentioned Gwen, now that I thought about it. Did she have something to do with this?

"Hey, Mia. How's it going?"

I jolted at the voice, looking around. Speak of the devil, Gwen was standing there, giving me a friendly grin. She was the type of girl to wear pleated skirts and over-the-knee socks unironically - even more so because Midtown High didn't have a uniform - and still kick your ass in AP Physics. I was also insanely envious of her perfect platinum blonde hair, which made mine look like dishwater.

(I mean, it looked like dishwater anyways, but next to Gwen my thin braid looked downright pitiful).

She must've noticed how skittish I was, because she added with an sheepish smile, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Waiting for Peter?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, glancing away, at the doors, feeling embarrassed although not being sure why. The fact that Gwen appeared right as I was thinking about her made me feel like she was psychic, and was only being nice to me because she knew better. "He's taking a while. N-not sure what's going on."

"Last I saw him, he was in the Principal's office."

I had to restrain myself from giving a pained sigh. I frowned at Gwen, saying, "Oh, no. What happened  _this_ time?"

"Nothing...nothing  _bad_ ," Gwen said, making a face and shrugging her shoulders. She bounced on her feet, and I got the feeling she didn't consider the situation as seriously as I did. Was I just overreacting? "He and Flash had a little, er,  _confrontation_ , if you know what I mean."

"Why am I not surprised?" I said, a weak smile forming on my face. Okay, so I  _was_  overreacting, but at least this time I didn't have to worry about it. Peter didn't often get into trouble; any black marks on his records he usually got from dealings with guys like Flash. "I guess it could be worse."

"Well, that's looking on the bright side," Gwen laughed, dimples in her cheeks. I've never met really her outside of class, but I could see why Peter was crushing so hard on her. She had a smile that made you feel amazing, and she didn't treat me like the invalid I was, so that's a bonus. "Have you done the report in US History yet? I can't believe Mrs. James is making us write seven pages when it's not even the final essay."

"I think I've got three pages done?" I said, thinking back to the mess of papers and projects on my desk. "I haven't typed it up yet. At least it's on World War Two, like the easiest subject ever."

"Cause it's not like we don't have enough to do already," Gwen said with a roll of her eyes. Being an Honors student (and future Valedictorian, like she was), meant that homework was pretty much the only fun you were going to have five days out of the week. "I think half the class is writing about Captain America. Mrs. James is probably going to hate him as much as HYDRA once she's done reading them all."

"I think they're just excited," I said, which seemed to be a better answer than 'pure laziness' because, well, it probably was for the most part. Captain America was about a hard a topic to write about as George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, at least in America. "After they pulled him out of the ice, everyone's practically dying to know what really happened."

"I  _know_ ," Gwen sighed, rocking on her heels in impatience. "I just want them to publicly release a statement or something, how he survived for  _seventy years_  in the Arctic. They made it sound like he was buried for years, hibernating or something, but how's that even possible? No one can last that long. He must've done the whole caveman-hunter thing, surviving off the land."

I pictured Captain America, like the images in those old propaganda reels, hunting polar bears with a spear, and I just started laughing. "I-I don't think it worked out like that. I mean, he's a S-Super Soldier, right? I don't think he'd - that he'd fall into the same category of realism as the rest of us mere mortals."

"Yeah, that's a good point," Gwen said, nodding. I expected her to add more, but when she didn't, an awkward silence fell between us.

Maybe it was my fault. I was still suspicious she had something to do with Mr. Rand's conversation earlier, and I had no idea how to broach the topic. I didn't want to make her angry - I didn't like causing trouble like that. I could barely defend myself verbally, never mind physically. I was better off not saying anything at all.

Still, I couldn't just stand there chasing circles in my mind. "Uh, Gwen…"

I lost my gall before I could finish, but Gwen looked down and said, "Yeah?"

Her voice made me jolt a little, and I closed my eyes, trying to steel my nerves. I took a breath and tried again. "...Um, did you, uh, have you seen Mr. Rand recently?"

"Hm, no. Why?"

She sounded so innocent, so curious that I thought I'd made a mistake, and I almost didn't want to keep going with this. "He just, uh, m-mentioned you. He talked to me after class. Said I should join the- the d-debate club."

"Really?" Gwen blinked, surprised. Her eyes were so big, so blue, her make-up flawless. Smart, beautiful, nice clothes, she had it all, didn't she? "Huh. What did you say?"

"Um," I couldn't hold her gaze. Looking people in the eye freaked me out almost as much as talking to them. How could I explain this without sounding totally lame? I could only mutter, "I'm not really good at talking to people."

"Oh, that's not true," Gwen admonished, nudging me kindly in the shoulder. It was pretty easy, since she was almost a head taller than me. "I like hearing what you have to say. You just need practice."

"He said the same thing." I was starting to wonder if maybe she was lying to me. It didn't seem to fit the Gwen I knew, but maybe she'd do it so I wouldn't get angry at her, or something.

"Well, maybe he's right?" Gwen said, which was not what I wanted to hear.

I mean, if it  _was_  her idea, with Mr. Rand talking to me and all, why the subterfuge? Why wouldn't she tell me herself?

I just frowned and looked away, focusing on a corner as I tried to find the right words to say to that. Didn't they get it? I didn't want this. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be seen. And when I was, I knew all they saw was the little sick girl who started coughing if she raised her voice half a decibel. I was better off when I couldn't be seen. That's what I wanted to say.

"I don't know," was what I actually said. I could only shrug half-heartedly. "I don't think I'm ready for that."

"Well, you'll never know until you try," Gwen said, trying to sound encouraging, and it only made me more frustrated because she was right. Before I could try (and fail) to counter that point, her head turned away and she said, "Oh, hey, there's my dad. See you later, Mia."

"Yeah," I said as she trotted off, ponytail bouncing behind her. My voice was too small to carry after. "See you later. I guess."

Her dad drove a black Crown Victoria, which was about as obvious as a hiding cop as you could get. But it looked incredibly normal when a teenage girl got into the front seat, smiling and chatting loudly to the man in the driver's seat. While Gwen's face was soft and sweet, Chief Stacy had narrowed eyes and a severe mouth, although he looked mildly non-threatening when he waved at me before driving away.

"Whoa, was that Gwen Stacy?" Peter appeared beside me, mouth agape. He looked down at me, eyes wide. "Did she say anything about me?"

I rolled my eyes, heading for the street now that he was here. "Not everything's about you, Pete."

"Yeah, but  _did_  she?" he urged, smiling giddily.

"She knows we're related, if that's what you mean." I replied flatly, then looked at him, this time noticing the new bruise on his face. It made me do a double-take. "Whoa, nice shiner. Oh, that's right, Gwen said you got into a fight today."

"She saw that?" Peter's face broke out into a grin, as if that was the best news he gotten all day. He punched the air with his fist. "Awesome!"

"Yeah, I'm sure she was really impressed when Flash pounded you into the dirt," I said, raising my eyebrows as Peter trotted ahead, apparently not realizing what the black eye made him look like. "I take it Flash won this time?"

"Well," Peter said, turning around and walking backwards to face me while he was talking. We passed under the sleek white gates of the school. "He always does, but only because he couldn't think of a good enough comeback."

I just shook my head. I had no idea what Gwen thought of this nerd (and I wasn't going to ask, because I knew better than to feed Peter's burgeoning ego), but there was no doubt to the fact that Peter had a tendency to stick his nose into things that didn't concern him, which more often than not got him into trouble.

I just asked, "So, what really happened?"

"Lunch period. Flash socked me in the face." Peter said, frowning at my tone. We set off at a walking pace; since I was shorter, Peter slowed down to match me. He stuck a thumb to his chest, "I was actually trying to help, you know, be the good guy? Flash was picking on this other kid, trying to stick his face into mashed potatoes. Everyone else was watching, cheering like idiots. I'm the one who actually steps up to the guy and you know what happens? I get pounded and break my camera. Un- _freaking_ -believable."

"Let me see," I said, pulling at the vintage camera hanging around Peter's neck. It was his father's, something Peter found in his basement about a year or two ago. He'd been obsessed with photography ever since. "Looks like just the lens is cracked. You might be able to find a replacement."

"Where? They don't sell parts like these anymore," Peter complained, taking back the camera and caressing it woefully. "This used to be my dad's. It was his favorite. Uncle Ben's going to kill me if he finds out, and I don't have the cash to buy another one."

"Maybe you can find a used piece on Amazon. Or," I added with a positive spin, hoping to inspire him. "You can retrofit a modern one. You're good with the gadgety hardware stuff. And Uncle Ben's got tools in his garage. How hard could it be, especially for you?"

"Hmm," Peter squinted his eyes, brought the camera a little closer for examination. "Well, we  _do_ have another one. Its lens is kind of small, but it has better focus. I might be able to whip something up. I should keep you around, Miss Fletcher. You've got plenty of ideas I could steal."

I jabbed him with my elbow. "You wouldn't last a second without me. Every pilot needs his wingman. Or, uh, wingwoman."

"Yeah, you're my Goose," he said, slinging an arm around my shoulder, getting me in a headlock and nearly dragging me along. It was all in good fun, but I was having a hell of a time trying to wriggle out. "Wait, so does that make me Maverick?"

"You got the chops for it," I said, poking at his face. "If you keep this up. So long as I'm not the one that dies and gets replaced by some asshole that you didn't even like in the first place."

"What? Are you kidding me?" he said, sounding offended I would even mention it. "You can't be replaced. The only way anyone can replace you is if they put your brain into a specially-designed android body."

"One that has good lungs and immunity to all diseases. So I don't get pneumonia again."

"And has killer biceps," Peter added, swinging me around like I was a sack of potatoes. Peter was no weight-lifter, but compared to me he was as strong as the Hulk. I ended up on his shoulders, and I dug my fingers into his hood, clinging tight as he held onto my ankles, anchoring me. "You need to protect me whenever I decide to do something stupid like stand up to Flash again."

"So I'm your wingwoman  _and_  your second in battle?" I said, pulling an exaggerated face. "Jeez, don't tell me I'm your Girl Friday, too."

"Of course not," Peter said cheerfully, skipping a little and making me bounce and laugh. People stared and skirted around us, two crazy kids gathering too much attention on the street. "You'll just program one into a robot, so she'll do all my homework while I create my world-changing invention."

"And which invention is that, exactly?" I asked sarcastically. "The one that makes plastic efficiently bio-degradable, or the one that turns gas engines into electric ones?"

"Whichever one gives me the most money and also doesn't get me sued by a million oil companies."

Then he took a sharp turn,  _away_  from the subway entrance. I swayed on his shoulders from the momentum, craning my head. With growing alarm, I watched the stairs that lead to the depths of New York recede behind us. "Hey, where are we going?"

"To the park. I want to practice on my skateboard."

"Why, so you can give yourself a broken arm, too?"

"Hey, that was  _one_ time! And it wasn't my fault that some other kid ran into me."

"Psshh. You just won't admit you have terrible coordination, Peter." I said, but didn't argue as Peter continued heading towards the park with me on his shoulders. I felt like a child, but not necessarily in a bad way. I'd always felt small, but at least Peter made it fun for me.

"Hey, I have  _excellent_  coordination. I just...uh, get distracted."

"A lot."

"A lot." Peter sighed, hanging his head.

With a cheeky grin, I pulled his hood up, covering his eyes and making him stumble a little bit. "Hey! I can't see!"

When he nearly lost his balance, I yanked it back up again, shaking with laughter. After I was done, I said, "I guess we'll see how good you are, then. Maybe you can join the X-Games. You think they have a section for bow-legged nerds?"

"Oh, hardy-har," he drawled. "You're so funny, Mia."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Later, I found myself sitting on some concrete steps as Peter attempted to pull a kickflip for the hundredth time. He only succeeded in falling on his butt every time. I had my head in my hands, watching in utter boredom as he tried it again, to absolutely no effect. "Is it really that hard, or are you doing this on purpose?"

"No! It's just being stupid, that's all." Peter growled, getting back to his feet. He kicked his skateboard in frustration, but it only hit the nearby wall and rammed back into his shin. "Yeow!"

I failed to hide my smirk as he hopped up and down on one foot, clutching his bruised leg. "Didn't Einstein say that repeating the same task over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity?"

"You know what," Peter said, snatching up his skateboard and throwing me a dirty look. "If I wanted your advice, I'd ask."

"A monkey can do better than you."

"Hey! What happened to being my wingwoman? You're way too negative to be having my back, Goose."

"I'm just trying to keep your ego in check," I said, shrugging my shoulders with a casual flare. "Maverick's got a head so big it almost got him killed. Actually, it got  _Goose_  killed. So really, I'm just looking out for myself."

"It wasn't Maverick's fault Goose died. It was the Commies!" Peter pointed out.

"Goose wouldn't be fighting them at all if it had been for Maverick," I said, standing up and brushing off my jeans. "Besides, you're doing it wrong. You do a kickflip by placing the  _ball_  of your foot on the tail, not your  _heel_."

Peter frowned at me, then dropped his skateboard, rolling on it with his foot. "What,  _now_  you tell me? Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I liked watching you fall. It was funny."

"You are a terrible human being," Peter made a face, then pushed the skateboard towards me with his foot. It came to a gentle stop at my toes. "Here, get on."

"What? No way," I kicked it back like it was covered in sewage. Aside from the obvious, I didn't like skateboarding. I had terrible balance and I was afraid of falling and hurting myself. I was about as sturdy as a hollow glass statue. "I don't want to die, thanks."

"Just stand on it, it's easy!" Peter picked up the skateboard and strolled over to me. I tried to get away, but he caught my arm and held me in place while he set down the skateboard again. Then, against my will, he physically picked me up and placed me on top. I gasped as the skateboard rolled back and forth beneath my feet. But Peter just laughed. "Left foot first, you goober. Just hang on to me and I'll push you."

"You're not going to do that thing parents do with their kids riding their bike for the first time where they push you and let go, right?"

"Of course not. Why would I ever do a thing that?"

"Because you're Peter, and that's a Peter thing to do."

"Will you just relax and trust me already? Sheesh."

And suddenly I was moving, Peter pushing me between my shoulderblades as the skateboard rolled forward beneath my shaking knees. The skate park here was pretty flat, filled mostly with kids also practicing moves before trying them on the ramps and rails. I threw out my arms to keep balance, my breath hitching before going faster as my heart rate picked up. "Whoa! Slow down!"

"We're not even going fast!" Peter said, but I could tell he was picking up speed, from sound of his quickening footsteps. I wanted to bail out, but I was going too fast and I didn't know if Peter could catch me in time before I ate pavement. "Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, like you told me."

Well, I should've kept my mouth shut, because it was a lot easier said than done. Putting weight closer to my toes felt like I was going to tip the skateboard and that just freaked me out even more. I could only rock back and forth, unable to hold the stance.

But the longer Peter pushed me, the more I got to settle in. I didn't have the correct stance, probably, but I found one mildly comfortable that kept me from falling over. I brought in my arms a little bit as I put weight down on my center of gravity.

Peter, sensing the change, went a little faster. An uncontrollable burst of giggles left my throat as we went over a small rise, my stomach dropping as we shot over the decline. I was picking up momentum, and Peter stumbled trying to keep up with me. "Use your feet to push yourself forward!"

I tried, taking one foot down to skim the tarmac before I kicked off the ground, smiling giddily as I jerked forward. Between the laughter and going so fast, it was getting a little hard to breathe. I coughed a little, but I was too busy actually enjoying myself for once to give it any notice.

I had never gone this fast outside of a car before. My braid whipped back and forth behind me, my too-large sweater billowing in the wind. It was... _exhilarating_ , actually. I wasn't even afraid. It was what I always imagined it would be like, to actually have  _fun_  like normal people do. To play sports, to throw balls, to run and scream and dance helter-skelter across the field.

Things I could never do. Things that Astor had, that Peter had, that I could only get a taste of before it killed me.

I didn't even realize Peter had let go until I glanced behind me and saw that he was twenty feet behind and getting further away.

" _Peter!_ " I shrieked, utterly betrayed.

"You're doing great!" He called back, jumping up and down, waving back at me. "Keep going! You've got it!"

I couldn't keep looking at him forever. Realizing I had no idea where I was going, I whipped my head back around, my heart jumping into my throat. My balance wobbled and the nose of the skateboard jerked around as my confidence nose-dived.

I thought I was doing pretty well, though, until the ground disappeared.

I cried out, bending at the knees to keep myself on the skateboard as I was suddenly flying down a ramp. I heard Peter shouting behind me, but I couldn't catch what he said over the wind flying around my glasses and past my ears.

The concrete rose and before I could figure out how to puts the brakes on this stupid, I went flying over the ridge.

The skateboard left my feed and I went tumbling into the dirt on the other side. I was lucky, the fall had been short, and the ground on the other side was a lot softer than concrete. I must've fallen in the grass area just beyond the skatepark.

My glasses fell from my face as I kicked up cloud of dust. I felt it on my tongue as I gasped, banging my elbow and knees in the process of breaking my fall.

 _Oh, no_.

I tumbled several times before coming to a stop, and by then I was coughing up a fit. Before I realized it, my throat had closed up and chest started tightening. I hacked into my hand, so hard that tears came into my eyes.

I tried finding my glasses, my other hand skimming across the ground like a frantic spider, but they weren't there. My vision was too hazy to make anything out besides large general shapes and colors, and I was too incapacitated to move.

Asthma was a whole lot of Not Fun, although I guess it was hard for some people to take it seriously. People like Astor, for example, who thought it was just a cliché weakness for a nerd like me. I mean, she's not  _wrong_ , but that's life. I  _became_  the nerd because asthma prevented me from being almost anything else. A part of me always wondered if she thought I was faking it for sympathy.  _That_ would be a new one.

Anyways, according to Astor and my guidance counselor, if I just pushed myself a little harder, ate a healthy diet, and exercised, that my asthma would just go away. Or become less of a problem. Or something. Whatever. If I did that, I could become popular and not treated like the diseased, rickety-boned study case that I had been since the day I was born. That I could do sports and buff up my extracurriculars and show how well-rounded I am to the colleges.

I tried to explain to them — it's not that easy. When I get an asthma attack, I can't just "tough it out". It's not like a stubbed toe or headache that goes away eventually. It's my lungs rejecting my body, rejecting the air I need to breathe. What the hell am I supposed to do, tell my lungs to quit being babies and deal with it?

Yeah, if only it were that easy. No, having asthma — and in particular, having an asthma attack — was like breathing through a straw. And not just any straw, but a straw in a glass full of thick, wonderful strawberry vanilla smoothie. You breathe it in, sucking at the liquid matter that's too thick and slow-moving and in the way of what you really need. It's long and frustrating and you just want to give up, but you can't because you'd die. Probably.

It was how I got Peter to understand the sensation of asthma. Peter was just as much of a nerd as I was, probably even more so, but at least he didn't have to deal with something like that. Low endurance and muscle mass, sure, but not asthma.

"Mia? Mia, where did you go?" I heard Peter call, distant but getting closer. I tried calling back, but I couldn't even breathe. I heard his footsteps draw closer, running up the hill till I saw him appear at the top.

"Mia!" he spotted me immediately, all curled up in the fetal position, gasping for air. Peter leapt forward, sliding down the ramp and scrambling to a crouch at my side. He waved his hands over my body frantically, not knowing what to do with them. "Oh, god, a-are you okay? Where's your inhaler?"

"I-it's...h-ho-ome..." I rasped, covering my mouth as my chest rattled. Every time I inhaled, my throat whistled, air passing through a hole too small.

"Hold on, I-I-I think I have a spare," Peter threw off his backpack, digging around inside before he withdrew the little white canister, holding it out to me with his other hand on my back. Not many knew this, but like me Peter had a terrible stutter, especially when he was nervous. The only way he'd overcome was through acting, being grandiose and funny; but I suppose in moments like these, it was hard to think of anything smart to say. "You'll be — you'll be fine. Hey, hey, hey, Mia, look at me, look at me. You're g-g-gonna be all right, okay? I w-won't let an-any-anything happen to you."

Peter was staring right into my eyes, brown into gray, and as I held his gaze and trying not to panic, I knew he was telling the truth. I had to. Peter could've said the sky was green and we were on Mars, and I'd believe it with a second thought.

Grabbing the inhaler, I shoved it into my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut, and pressed down.

Cool, dry, slightly stale mist entered my throat and suddenly the vice-like grip around my lungs was gone. Everything opened up and it felt like the cotton in my throat had been cleared away. I took in a huge, grateful gasp of air and slumped against the back wall of the ramp, exhausted and sore. Attacks could really take a lot out of you.

"Here, put these back on," His hand was in front of her face and I felt cool plastic slide over my ears. Ah, so Peter found my glasses after all. The world came into focus and as Peter pulled his hand away, I saw a faint smile on his face, more relieved than anything. "Not so bad, huh?"

"You mean, aside from my total wipe-out?" I wheezed, feeling the air flow past my throat easier. There wasn't that annoying whistling nose anymore that made me sound like a dying bird. "Yeah, it went great."

"Are you going to tell Aunt Hillary?"

"What, that I had an asthma attack?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up. Peter always fussed whenever I got hurt; he and my mom could compete for winning prize in that sport. But I imagined he was also afraid that Mom would blame him for this.

Which she  _might_ , since Peter was usually the reason I got into trouble, as rare as those moments might be. "I don't know, maybe. If she asks first. If not...I'll just pretend nothing happened, and then neither of us will be grounded."

Mom had a tendency to overreact whenever I got hurt. Just last year I broke my finger after Missy Kallenback slammed a locker door on it, and Mom wouldn't even let me take a bath unsupervised for fear of getting the casting wet. Even a simple asthma attack meant I was spending less time outside after school. I already had a lifetime pass in gym class, I didn't want to be cut off from the physical world entirely.

"I like that plan, that's a good plan." he said, helping me up by the arm. "Uncle Ben and Aunt May already know I got into a fight with Flash, they don't need to find out that I almost killed you, too."

"It was an accident, I'm sure they'd understand."

"For you, maybe," Peter said, looking glum as he got his skateboard and hiked it over his shoulder. "It's different with me. They know I know better."

"It wasn't so bad. I actually liked skateboarding, for a whole three seconds." I said. "And then I fell."

We started heading out the sidewalk, silently agreeing that enough was enough for the day. I had to get home anyways — Mom didn't want me out past five on a weekday.

"We need to work on that android replacement body for you. I need someone to keep up with me." Peter said as we hit the sidewalk. The subway was only a few blocks away. Even though the tube was a total germ factory, it was also the quickest way for either of us to get home, and if I kept my hands to myself, I wouldn't contract any life-destroying illnesses. "You can be the Million-Dollar Bionic Woman."

"I think I'd like that million in hard cash, so Mom and I can move out of Hell's Kitchen."

"Is it really that bad?"

"Are you kidding? It makes the rest of Manhattan look like Disneyland. I'm not allowed to walk alone after dark."

"You're not allowed to walk alone  _before_  dark, either."

"Yeah, well," I made a face, jogging a bit to catch up with him. I stumbled and nearly fell. Just that winded me, and then I had to slow down and catch my breath before I got another asthma attack. "We'll see... about that... won't we?"

I always wanted to be like everybody else. Like, as much as I hated Astor, I was also supremely jealous of her, because she could play all the sports she wanted while I had to sit on the bleachers. Yeah, maybe if I had been normal, I still wouldn't be cut out for field hockey, but I'd sure like to  _try_ , you know?

I wanted other people to just give me a chance to prove myself. I didn't want them to hold me back. Of everyone I knew, I'd thought Peter would understand.

"Whoa there, Goose," Peter caught me before I could eat shit on the pavement. I didn't like being manhandled, especially considering how easy it was for other people to do it to me, but this would be the one time I didn't complain. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Let's just make sure we get you there in one piece, okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I muttered, stuffing my hands in my pockets, hunching my shoulders as he slung an arm around me. Peter meant well, but that didn't mean I had to like it. "Whatever makes you happy, I guess."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

"Watcha doin', platypus?" Peter asked, sliding in on his swivel chair and spinning around. He was eating a banana, as if he didn't just have a massive plate of food for dinner.

"Coding, what does it look like?" I muttered, glancing at him in irritation. I had to pull on the edge of the desk to bring myself back, and slapped Peter's hand away when he tried to type something in. "No touch! How are you still hungry?"

"I'm a growing boy, I'm allowed to eat," he said around a mouthful, throwing me a disgruntled look. "And you put in a colon instead of a semi-colon. Just sayin'."

"Oh." I winced, embarrassed, and made the edit. "Thanks."

"So are you going to tell me what this does eventually?" Peter asked, leaning over my shoulder to watch as I worked. It was a little annoying, but he had a good eye for mistakes, and the extra help seemed valuable. "Or are you just going to hold out and torture me until you're done?"

"The last one sounds promising," I replied, smirking as I typed. My hands were small, and Peter's keyboard looked ginormous in comparison. It seemed like I had to move twice as much just to get the same amount of work done. "I like watching you squirm."

"You are so evil," he laughed, and poked me in the side, making me jump. "Good thing you're ticklish."

"I'm not ticklish!" I protested, and I could see the look in Peter's eyes that he was ready to challenge that claim, so I quickly diverted the subject. "What's up with your background, by the way? Are you stalking Gwen now?"

"What? No!" It was funny how we made the same yelping sound when we were offended. Although we couldn't see Peter's computer background at the moment, Peter fidgeted like he wanted to change it right now, as if to somehow prove me wrong. "It's - it's just a nice photograph! Of the debate club! N-not of Gwen or anyone in particular."

"Are you going to ask her out?" I asked, trying to keep my face neutral as I turned back to the screen. While Peter had a great sense of humor, he tended to sour when it went the wrong way. Especially at his expense, by me. "Or, you know, talk to her, like a regular human being?"

"I dunno, maybe," Peter said in a sullen tone, hunching his shoulders.

I glanced at him, suspicious. "Maybe? When?"

"Well…" He drew out the word, spinning his seat absent-mindedly, but I knew it was so he didn't have to look at me. "I may or may not be going to OSCORP tomorrow. They've got a tour for incoming interns."

"You applied?" I raised my eyebrows, surprised. Peter never seemed particularly interested in OSCORP before. He always liked Stark Industries more.

"Not...exactly." Peter winced.

I squinted at him, tilting my head and turning away from the computer entirely to face him. Peter still wouldn't look at me directly. "What do you mean, not exactly? You're not going to do anything illegal, are you? And what does OSCORP have to do with Gwen?"

"Gwen works at OSCORP."

"So you  _are_  stalking her."

"Oh, my god! It's not stalking if it's on her Facebook page!" Peter threw out his arms, sounding genuinely annoyed now. But I angered him to the point that he spun to face me again, which was what I wanted in the first place; he didn't seem to realize this. "And we're friends on Facebook. Is  _that_  illegal, Nancy Drew?"

"Hey, I'm just teasing, relax," I held up my hands in a gesture of peace. I couldn't help but grin at the rising blush in Peter's face. Aw, he's embarrassed. "Does she know you'll be there tomorrow?"

"Um. No." He huffed, dropping his arms, shoulders drooping. Peter was great at many things, but social graces were not one of them. "And that's not the only reason I'm going to OSCORP."

I paused, waiting for him to elaborate, but frowned when he didn't. Something seemed off in the way Peter was acting, hesitant and secretive, that made me wonder what he was keeping from me. "Peter, what're you talking about? What else is at OSCORP?"

"I, uh," Peter made a face, rubbing the back of his head. The empty banana peel lay forgotten on the desk as he stood up, walking over to his bed, and the mess of papers on top of it. From underneath he pulled out a leather briefcase, a little worn but well-made. The initials RP were stamped on the front. "I found this in the basement, after it flooded the other day, remember? It...it belonged to my dad. He left it behind, the night of - b-before the accident."

He handed it to me, but I nearly dropped it, surprised by how heavy it was. Good quality leather, brown, with brass clasps. Certainly professional, the type of thing a bio-geneticist would carry to work. I didn't recognize it; my memories of Peter's dad were already faint to begin with. "I'm not following. What does this have to do with OSCORP?"

"Look inside. Between the divider."

Opening the flap, I got a whiff of musty air before analyzing the inside of the briefcase. It was empty, and the divider was pretty thin. Yet when I pressed my fingers along the top, I felt a small pinch, and when I wedged my fingernails in, I discovered that there was extra space, the divider splitting open in the middle. "A secret compartment!"

"Yeah, and guess what was inside." Peter said, and didn't wait for me to theorize before handing over a manila folder. The label was stamped with 'Project 00' in red letters. Upon opening the file, I found several sheets of research and a debriefing report, mostly unreadable due to all the redacted sections, covered in black ink. I felt a chill going down my back, like I was looking at secret military files.

I understood some of the research, though. "Your dad was working on some sort of...what, gene splicer? Playing with insect DNA…?"

"Arachnids, actually," Peter corrected, coming over to point out the double-helix diagram. "Mixed with primates. There were other combinations, too. Mostly lizard DNA, put into mammals. From what I can tell, they were focusing on...I think  _regenerative_  properties. He even wrote an equation that would give them the perfect answer…"

Said equation stood out from the rest of the data, written in scrawled pencil instead of the finely printed ink. I noted one glaring defect. "It's not finished."

"No." Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair as he fell back on his bed, papers crunching underneath his weight. "He didn't get the chance."

I stared at him for a moment, before going back to the papers, flipping through them again. The debriefing certainly seemed to have come from a government office, but even the name of said office, or the person who wrote this was redacted. There was only the seal of an eagle, with its large wings and tail taking up most of the space; on its chest was a shield of stars and stripes, clearly American - but it didn't look like any government agency I'd ever seen before. Was it NSA? CIA? Or maybe something else entirely.

No, that didn't seem right. Around the circle were six big letters, which read:

"S.H.I.E.L.D?" Peter said out loud, frowning. "What the hell does  _that_ stand for?"

"N-no idea, looks gov-government to me." I made a helpless gesture with my hands. I had no idea if this was good news or not. Were little-known agencies something to be concerned about? "D-did your dad work f-for the U.S.?"

"Not that I know of," Peter reached over to shake the mouse a little. The seal vanished, replaced by the black screen, which quickly filled with a list of words and numbers. It took me a moment to recognize them as dates. "Whoa, what is this? Some sort of databank?"

He clicked on one of the names — "Experiment 4; 3/12/99" — and the screen was filled with the grainy scan of a document. The same seal with the eagle was at the top of the page, and I could read 'From the desk of Dr. Richard Parker' followed by several paragraphs of typed text beneath it.

Unfortunately, most of it was rendered unreadable due to all the redacted sections, covered in black ink. I felt a chill going down my back, like I was looking at secret military files.

What was this?

"Whoa," Peter breathed, scanning what lines we could read. "Looks like he was working on some genetic experiment."

"A secret one, t-too, by th-the looks of it." I said, leaning back a little. There was something very not-kosher about all of this, and I didn't like it. "P-Peter, I d-don't think we're supposed to —"

"Wait, wait," Peter interrupted, using the mouse to go back to the list, then clicking on another title. I barely managed to read the word 'Debriefing' before another scanned image showed up. The same seal, Dr. Parker's name, blacked-out text. Peter went back, picked another one, and found the same results there, too. "Huh, I wonder why they redacted so much of it."

"P-probably because it's t-top secret information," I said, reaching over to grab the mouse again, taking it back under my control. I quickly exited out of the files, much to Peter's complaint. "D-Do you really th-think we should be looking a-at this sort of st-stuff? Wh-wh-who knows who this really belongs t-to?"

"It belonged to my dad." Peter's voice was firm, and the look he gave me was one of irritation and disappointment. "And now it belongs to me. What's got you all freaked out suddenly? I thought you liked all this weird, secrecy stuff. It's just like in the movies!"

"Exactly, they're just movies!" I pointed out. "This i-is  _real_ , Peter. I d-don't know what SHIELD is b-but they look like they m-mean business. A-and I don't think this is all… w-well,  _legal_. Your dad was hiding this for a reason, right? What if it was the last project he worked on?"

"It could be," Peter looked back at the screen, tapping his bottom lip with his fingers. He reclaimed the mouse, clicked another file. "The dates are right. Whoever this SHIELD was, he must've been helping them, with this Project Phoenix or whatever. I still can't tell what it's supposed to do. It says here, 'interviewed wounded vets at the local clinic' — what would they be interviewing vets for? Sounds like they were  _building_ something…"

"What would a p-professor in genetics b-be building?" I asked skeptically.

"I have no idea," he threw up a hand, before using it to prop his head. A line of concentration formed in his brow as he scrolled down the list. "There's gotta be hundreds of files here.

Communications, reports, field studies…this is a lot of stuff for just a year of work. It all stops in November of 1999, right before the-the plane crash."

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, as though the words hurt. Peter's parents had died on Thanksgiving vacation — their plane, a little propeller engine, was heading to the Catskills to visit friends, only for engine failure to lead to a catastrophic crash into dense forest. It took weeks before anyone knew what really happened, for park rangers to find the remains of the crashed plane, and later for police to officially pronounce Richard and Mary Parker dead.

"It's okay, Peter," I said softly, putting hand on his shoulder. Peter didn't react, just dropped his gaze to his shoes, looking at a complete loss. At least he didn't shove my hand off. "If it's too much, w-we don't have t-to look at it a-anymore —"

"No, it's fine." He just muttered, making a face as he crossed his arms and scowled out the window. Not in an angry way, but just frustrated. I thought I'd get a reason for that, but Peter remained silent, and it stretched into awkwardness as I sat there, trying to take all of this in.

I mean, this was huge. Not world-ending huge, but kind of close. At least for Peter, and me by proxy. I hardly remembered the shift in my memories, from when his parents were there, to when they…weren't anymore. I couldn't even remember the funeral — although, chances were I was probably in the hospital at the time.

And now Peter just stumbled upon his dad's old work, something buried in the apartment for years, forgotten, then rediscovered by sheer chance of a plumbing failure.

One might think it was fate.

A warning went off in my head that I let the conversation drop for too long. I glanced at Peter, who seemed lost in thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stared out the window, the rain pouring down and the tree in the backyard swaying gently in the wind. It didn't look like he was going to bring something up anytime soon, so I broke the silence. "Y-you think we should show Aunt M-May or Uncle Ben a-any of this? Or maybe my mom?"

Peter jolted a little at my voice, before recovering and shaking his head. He started to pace, which meant he must be really thinking hard. "No. I just — I don't want to upset them. They're probably not gonna get it any more than we do. Why make them worry over this? It's just... so old."

"What a-about Ned?" I asked, glancing back at the computer. Our words were low, like we were discussing some sort of secret conspiracy. "This s-s-sort of thing seems r-right up his alley."

But Peter just shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't know. I'm not sure he'd understand, really. And what's the point, really? What does it even mean anymore?"

 _Trouble_ , I almost said, but kept my mouth shut. I glanced at the computer again. Despite my wariness, I was intensely curious of what this SHIELD was, and what Project Phoenix was about. Was I crazy for thinking that there might be more to this story than met the eye? Peter wasn't wrong when he said it was like the movies. I was partial to conspiracy theories myself, but I usually didn't talk about it too much. Especially now, when it might upset Peter.

I could see Peter getting himself all worked up, and bit my lip. This was starting to feel a lot like my fault. "I-I'm sorry I s-said that. I shouldn't have. I-I didn't m-mean to say that t-there's anything  _bad_ going o-on with them, Pete —"

"Doesn't matter now," I was taken aback by his careless shrug. The look Peter gave me was one of defeat, of apathy. "They're dead."

"P-Peter…"

"My last memory of them was that Thanksgiving right before they left on the plane," he said abruptly, as though he hadn't heard me. Peter spun mindlessly in his chair as he continued to speak, "When I was five. There was this massive snowstorm. I remember the car getting stuck. Mom and Dad were arguing, but we got here just fine. I got a cold, though, because we were stuck out there so long. Turned into the flu, remember? I think you got it, too. We both had to stay home. I cried so hard because I couldn't go to the Catskills with them. I remember Mom said she'd come back with a new train set for me, to make up for it. If I had been on that plane…I guess I was lucky I got sick after all, huh?"

Peter laughed, but it was dry and humorless, and he brought up his arms to cradle his head, leaning back in the chair to look up at the ceiling. "They were good people. They didn't do anything wrong. How is any of that fair?"

I kind of just sat there, at a loss for words. There was a bitterness in his voice that made me shift uncomfortably. I didn't like talking about my own emotions, I certainly wasn't any good at handling other people. But Peter was my cousin, my best friend, and if there was anyone I was going try for, it'd be him. "L-life isn't fair, Peter. Stuff like that, it j-just happens."

Peter sighed, dropped his arms and hung his head. He scuffed his bare feet against the hardwood floor. "I know. I just wish I knew them better, you know? Uncle Ben tells me stories about them all the time, but it's...it's not the same. And now I have  _this thing_ …"

He gestured vaguely to the computer, voice trailing, and Peter's eyes glazed over as he was lost in a distant thought, maybe a dream. I had to call him back to reality. "W-we can st-still look, i-if it makes you feel b-better."

"What?" Peter blinked, meeting my eyes again. "I thought this freaked you out."

"It  _does_ , b-but," I inhaled through my nose, a little disgruntled with myself. As Peter's cousin, it felt like my duty to back him up on these sorts of things. "I-I guess I'm c-curious, too. Maybe we can find out what really happened. What P-Project Phoenix is, a-and why your dad w-was working o-on it."

"Really?" And just like that, Peter's eyes lit up, a bewildered smile pulling at his lips. He drew in, grabbing my arm. "You're serious? Because I swear, if you're just pulling my leg, I'm gonna—"

"I'm n-not pulling y-your leg," I said, shaking my head and laughing a little. "I just — wh-whatever this is, i-it's important, r-right? We sh-should do s-something about it."

"Awesome!" Peter pumped his fist, then paused. "We'll start right away and — Oh, wait, we can't. I almost forgot, we still have that field trip on Friday, remember? And then there's all of that homework…"

"F-fine, we'll do it a-after all that," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. I wasn't sure if we'd really tackled whatever problem Peter had, or if pursuing this Project Phoenix or whatever was really going to give us what we wanted, but it felt wrong not to try. "It's n-not like w-waiting a few days is gonna m-make a-a difference after, like, ten years o-of this thing hiding. And I-I c-can't wait to go t-to that OsCorp exhibit."

"Me, too," Peter said, grinning. "I want to see those crazy genetically-altered spiders they got going on."

"The b-bugs?" I made a face, a little grossed out. I was not the biggest fan of bugs, and spiders were right up that creepy-crawly alley. "You're the only p-person I know wh-who likes spiders, you know that?

"First of all, they're arachnids," Peter held up a finger. "And second of all, what's wrong with spiders?"

"E-everything. Everything i-is wrong with spiders."

"That sounds a little biased to me, Mia."

"Just t-try not t-to get into anything when y-you're ogling th-them, yeah?"

"What? C'mon, you know me," Peter snorted with a toss of his head. "How much trouble could I get into?"

"Well, th-that black eye tells a-a certain story."

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So these are the "deleted scenes" from my very first draft of Rebel Columbia, in 2016. Back then, the fic was titled "Incandescent" and this version of Spider-Man was Andrew Garfield's (as Homecoming had yet to be announced). Likewise, I had a subplot in which Peter and Mia would discover that Peter's dad, an acclaimed scientist, had contributed to the creation of the Extremis virus, and was possibly killed for his knowledge. I never ended up getting too far with that subplot as I began rewriting soon after Homecoming was announced, then twice after I saw the movie.
> 
> Also featuring: Gwen Stacy, who was later replaced by Kate Bishop (Hawkeye - i had an idea to bring in her origin, but decided against it as I already had too much on my plate); and finally MJ from Homecoming.
> 
> Note: Hillary is Amelia's mother. I changed the name to Hedy sometime after this.


	8. Incandescent Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The second half of the first draft scenes. This one features Dr. Connors, from The Amazing Spider-Man, as I was really focused on the crossover and exploring that version of Peter's origin. As you can guess, the story was very different from what it eventually turned out to be.

**Incandescent Part Two**

* * *

Three hours later, Peter and I stood at the doorstep of Dr. Connors house — it took two buses to get there, in which I had to convince Peter to both fix his clothes and take a nap before he had a stroke.

Dr. Connors house was about as nice as you could expect a man with his kind of paycheck to have. Down in Greenwich Village, were luscious trees and rose gardens made the place a veritable paradise in the middle of a concrete jungle, Dr. Connors lived in a lovely refurbished home, with silver-white walls of stone, a red-brick pathway, and a two-door garage, an utter rarity in Manhattan.

I was still questioning Peter's sanity about all of this. Neither of us knew Dr. Connors, and his address wasn't exactly public information (turned out Peter needed me for more than one thing; I obliged, if only because I was too intrigued to  _not_  help). Now, here we were, two ragtag kids ringing the doorbell to man who didn't know, who wouldn't recognize us, and might very well call the cops for trespassing on his property. And, you know, finding his address hidden on OsCorp's website.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I hissed as Peter rang the doorbell. He was calmer, now that he was rested, and with his shirt right way out and shoes tied, he looked positively normal. Nothing like the boy I saw this morning.

"I guess we'll find out," Peter answered, just as the door opened. A tall blond, bespectacled man frowned quizzically at us, and before he could say anything, Peter cleared his throat, and with a nervous smile, said, "Uh, Dr. Connors, you don't remember me, I, uh —"

"You're the intern from the other day," Dr. Connors said, raising his chin in recognition. I was a little surprised to hear the man's accent: Welsh, maybe, from the sound of it. Dr. Connors voice was soft, but carefully composed when he said, "And you brought a friend. Well, I'm sure you're a very nice young man, but this is a  _home_ , and I'll ask you to make an appointment with my office."

 _Damn. So much for that._ I knew it was over then, over before it even started. Dr. Connors stepped away, about to close the door again. I had just stepped back, ready to tell Peter that we tried, that we could do something else, and really just leave this place that didn't welcome us, when Peter suddenly blurted: "I'm Richard Parker's son."

"Peter!" I hissed, startled. I knew that was his trump card, the one thing that might convince Dr. Connors otherwise, but I hadn't though Peter brave enough to pull it.

Or that it would work.

Dr. Connors, too, paused at the sound of that. He turned to look at Peter, a flash of surprise on his face before being replaced by one of quiet curiosity, bemusement; and slowly the door started to open again. Dr. Connors stepped closer, squinting at his face, as though he might see some remnant of Richard Parker in this boy who stood before him with hunched shoulders and unkempt hair.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, and repeated, "…Peter?"

"I-I just," Peter shifted on his feet, struggling to remain natural. "I know you used to work with my dad, and I just, er — I wanted to talk about him. About the work you guys did together. I wanted to know what he was doing before he, um, left."

Dr. Connors nodded slowly, as if this was what he expected to hear out of the mouth of Richard Parker's son. "Yes, yes, of course. Richard was an old friend of mine. Old friend. Oh, please, come in. I already have some tea boiling."

He stepped back to allow us inside, and he raised his eyebrows at me. Once more I felt self-conscious, wondering if he was judging my current state of health, the fact that I was contaminating his home, but instead he merely asked, "And, may I ask, who you are?"

"This is my cousin," Peter said, gesturing to me, which also created enough space in the doorway for me to pass through. I did so, hesitantly.

"Mia." I managed to say without making gross sounds with my nose (thank God). Then I remembered that wasn't my whole name, and considering the kind of person I was talking to, I figured I might as well be specific. "I-I mean, Amelia F-Fletcher. I'm the m-moral support."

"Ah, of course."

Dr. Connors led us to his kitchen, and we passed through a pristine home with polished floors and perfectly decorated walls. Nothing seemed out of place, although I was having a hard time not staring at Dr. Connors arm, how it ended just above where his elbow should be, and wondering if I was a horrible person for this. Aside from the arm, Dr. Connors seemed to be in perfect health — I should be more concerned with myself.

I managed to distract myself with the kitchen facilities when we entered, admiring the trees outside the window, cherry blossoms starting to blooms. Being here reminded me how much I myself wanted to go home, collapse on my bed, and sleep. I was already exhausted by the bus ride, the day at school. Not even coffee, which I didn't even like anyways, would help me here.

"So, what did you want to know, Peter?" Dr. Connors asked as he reached for the teapot on the stove.

"Well, I know you worked together for OsCorp," Peter started to say leaning against the counter next to me. It was cold to the touch, white marble, and I wanted to press my over-heated forehead against it. "I found his old briefcase, his ID card. I just…I wondered if you knew what happened. What made him and Mom run."

"Run?" Dr. Connors quirked an eyebrow at the word, glancing over his shoulder at Peter as he reached for some mugs in a cabinet. "Well, that's an interesting choice of words."

He heaved a sigh, placing down the mugs before picking up the pot, maintaining ease and control with one hand as he poured tea into the cups. "I'm sorry to say this, but I'm not sure I can help you, Peter. I don't know why they left, or where they were going —"

Dr. Connors pulled back with the pot, but it bumped against one of the mugs and knocked it off the counter. I watched, almost in slow motion, as it fell, only for Peter to snap down and catch it, by the handle, with two fingers. He pulled back up, smooth as could be, not spilling a single drop.

I nearly jumped at the sight of it, and would've said something had Dr. Connors not done a double-take and commented, "Good reflexes."

"Oh, thank you." Peter just shrugged, like it was nothing, and when Dr. Connors turned around to return the pot, I nudged him in the ribcage. When Peter looked at me, I whispered, "W-what was that?"

"What was what?" Peter replied, all too innocent. He glanced between me and the mug, took a sip. "You should try some, it's good."

Peter wasn't fast. Or graceful. He was skinny, sure, but not necessarily in good shape. His record of skateboard injuries was a testament to that. Still, I couldn't exactly call him out on it, and I wasn't going to make a scene in another man's home. Instead, I just rolled my eyes and grabbed a cup, sniffing at it before trying the taste.

The tea was hot on my tongue, and it almost hurt to swallow. But the heat and the steam cleared up my nose, and for the first time in several days I could breathe a little better. I took another tentative sip as Dr. Connors came back around. Peter handed him the last mug and said, "I read your book."

"Oh?" Dr. Connors said, taking the mug.

"Yeah, yeah, it's, er, something," Peter nodded his head, his gaze casting down, and once more he was just the nervous little kid again, unsure of himself or his words. Where was that slick guy who caught a mug full of hot tea in mid-air? "Do you really think it's possible? Cross-species genetics?"

 _Wait, what_? I brought up my head, surprised. Is  _that_  what the algorithm is about? I hadn't even thought of asking what it meant, what he learned about it from reading Dr. Connors book. I took a mental note to read it myself. Still, I was skeptical, and over my mug, I muttered, "Sounds like something out of  _Star Trek_."

"Of course! For years, we spent working on it," Dr. Connors never raised his voice, but there was a new enthusiasm there, as if it hadn't been years and years since he worked on it, that he still had hope. He gave me a short nod, apparently hearing what I said, adding, "And we received similar mockery, your father and I, for those theories. Not just in the community at large, but as OsCorp as well. They called us mad scientists. And then your father bred the spiders, combining different genomes from separate species, grew them from eggs and hatchlings…Why spiders? I don't know. Their resiliency, perhaps, their strength and size. And  _everything_  changed. The results were beyond encouraging. They were  _spectacular_.

"We were…" Dr. Connors sighed, a helpless ghost of a smile on his lips, as if recalling a nearly forgotten memory, a dream. "We were going to change the lives of millions. Including my own. Then it was over."

A pained look crossed his face. I was silent, watching the expressions flicker across his face as Dr. Connors continued, more quietly, "He — he was  _gone_. Took his research with him. And I knew without him, I…" Dr. Connors looked down, brow drawing together, swallowed. "I-I was angry. So I stayed away from you and your family. And for that I'm truly sorry."

A silence fell in the room, no one really knowing quite where to look, or what to say. Peter himself seemed to be at a loss of words; maybe he wasn't prepared for that kind of honesty, the level of emotion in Dr. Connors words. He pressed his lips together, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally saying, "Say — say it worked. Say y-you got it to work. How much would the, uh, the foreign species take over? What could the side effects be?"

I threw Peter another look. After hearing all this about his father, Peter wanted to know about the  _side effects_  of what was potentially a fantastical improbability. What did it matter? I wanted to know the facts before Richard Parker left, maybe gather clues, not wonder what might happen that'll never happen.

Still, Dr. Connors considered the question seriously, shrugged one shoulder. "It's hard to say, considering no subject survived. The problem was always —"

"The Decay Rate Algorithm?" Peter interjected, nodding as if he anticipated this. Then again, it was the reason why he was here. Or one of them, anyways.

Dr. Connors blinked, looking mildly impressed. "Right."

"Right," Peter put down his mug, got up off the counter and walked around it, pointing a shaking finger to a pad of paper in the corner. "Can I, uh…?"

"Of course."

Peter sat down on a stool on the other side, whipping out a pencil and pulling the paper towards him. I leaned over, watching as he scrawled down the equation with incredible ease. He must know it by heart now.

Dr. Connors, curious, came over to see what he was doing. When Peter was done, he dropped the pencil and pushed the pad over to Dr. Connors, then sat back with his hands in his lap, like a student waiting judgement on his schoolwork.

"Extraordinary," Dr. Connors murmured, gazing over the completed algorithm with a look akin to awe on his face. He gazed back up at Peter, jaw agape. "How did you come up with this?"

Peter made a face, apparently embarrassed, then tapped the pencil to his head. I smirked and decided to add, "He's sm-smarter than he l-looks."

"Hey!" Peter complained, while Dr. Connors just chuckled, stepping back after admiring the algorithm again.

"Well, she's not wrong," Dr. Connors smiled, then focused a more serious look on him. "Peter, how would you feel about coming to see me at the tower some day after school? And you can bring your moral support, if she'd like to come as well."

"W-what?" Peter looked taken aback, and I reached across the counter to punch him in the arm to get him thinking again. He shook his head, as though he couldn't believe this turn of events; what had he been expecting before? A bewildered grin appeared on his face. "I mean, yeah! I'd love to, that'd be great. Anytime! I'm just glad I could help."

"Well, that's lovely to hear," Dr. Connors smiled, pleased, and was about to say something else when another voice interrupted him.

"Daddy?" a boy appeared in the doorway of the living room, gazing across the space with bleary eyes at the three of us. He seemed no more than five or six, and apparently having just woken from a nap. He yawned, big and heavy, before brushing the corn-silk blond hair from his eyes. "Who're those people?"

"Oh, that's Billy, my son," Dr. Connors looked a little beleaguered, and yet amused to have the boy walk in like this. He smiled in welcoming, though, to assure Billy nothing was wrong, as he went over and picked up the boy. "And these are Peter and Amelia. Can you say hello to them, Billy?"

"Hi," Billy clung to his father's neck, keeping his face turned away, a little too young, too shy to be facing strangers on his own. His gaze fell on me, and he asked, "Are you sick?"

"Uh." I glanced at Dr. Connors, as if there might be some protocol to talking to other people's children, before saying, "A little, yeah. Just a cold."

"You're very skinny," The boy remarked, as lightly and casually as any five-year-old would. "Is Daddy helping you?"

" _Okay_ , I think that's enough for today," Dr. Connors chuckled, a little embarrassed, as he turned and carried Billy away, perhaps back to his room. I could hear his voice, fading, speaking to his son, " _Now, do you remember what I said about talking to strangers? What you're not supposed to say_?"

" _What they look like…_?" Billy's voice was frail, innocent, and completely unaware that he might've offended someone.

I wasn't. How could I get angry at a face like that? "Aw, he's so c-cute. I-I didn't know Dr. Connors h-had a son."

"Neither did I." Peter made a face, turning back around in his seat so he faced me again. He seemed to be having trouble containing a smile, and he seemed buzzing with energy, all over again. "But this is amazing, right? I-I did something that could change the world."

"I t-t- _told_  you this was your b-big break."

"Yeah, I know, but," Peter just pressed his hands against his face, pulling at his skin. "It just feels so real now. There's no turning back."

I gave him a funny look. "W-w-why would you want t-to turn back?"

Peter himself didn't look so sure. "I dunno. But I don't think it's going to be the same anymore. I'm going to be more than just Peter Parker, Nerd Extraordinaire. I can change the world now. I  _am_  changing the world. That's good, right? Because I want to help people. I want to help y —" Peter stopped, his eyes widening at me, before glancing away. "Never mind."

"What?" I blinked, confused. "H-help who?"

But Peter wouldn't give. "Just forget —"

"Ah, well, now that's taken care of," Dr. Connors returned, inhaling through his nose and giving us a smile. "Sorry about that. Billy means well, he just doesn't quite know his manners just yet."

"Its f-fine," I said, while Peter's phone buzzed. "I've heard w-worse."

"Ah," Dr. Connors said, although his brow furrowed slightly at that. I had meant it to be reassuring, but I suppose it sounded the opposite. I was about to correct myself when Peter suddenly stood up, grabbing his bag.

"Just got a text from Aunt May," Peter said, although I was pretty sure it was directed at me. "We have to head out. She says Ben needs my help at home, and I don't think Hillary wants you out so long, especially since you're, you know, sick and everything."

"Psh," I wrinkled my nose, downing the last of my tea. "When a-am I not?"

Peter turned around, jolted a little when he realized Dr. Connor was still there. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, I forgot — we gotta go. The tea was great. I'm glad you listened."

"Oh, no, it was my pleasure," Dr. Connors just shook his head, not the least bit insulted. He was still smiling as he escorted us back to the front door. "Today has certainly been  _enlightening_  for me, Peter. Your timing couldn't have been better. If you wish, I have time Friday if you can come to OsCorp. I'd love to show you our facilities — well, a better look than that tour you took."

"Thanks, man, this means a lot," Peter said, shaking his hand, before ducking out the door when Dr. Connors opened it.

I was just about to follow, halfway out the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Mia, could you wait a moment? I wish to say something."

Pausing, I brought my head around, frowning curiously at Dr. Connors, who looked a mite uncomfortable. What could he have to say to me? Really, this afternoon was about Peter — not that I was complaining — and I couldn't imagine what would be so important that he'd choose to speak privately about it, since Peter was well out of earshot now. "Is something wrong? Is it about Peter?"

"No, no," Dr. Connors said, then rectified, "Well, it's about his father. I remember now — Richard spoke of you a few times. His niece. Your early birth, the rampant illness. He spoke of your mother's worries, and although he never said it aloud, I always had the feeling that Richard felt helpless to aid you. Perhaps, as I hoped cross-species genetics could fix me, that he hoped it would bring you back to health as well."

"Oh." My gaze fell to a blank part of the wall; Peter's dad wanted to help me? It was such a strange concept, knowing I was important to a man I never really knew. "I never knew that. He thought he could make me better — permanently?"

"A possibility that still stands," Dr. Connors pointed out, a spark in his eyes, the same kind Peter might get when he had a really good (or really crazy) idea. Dr. Connors' tone was kind, but earnest when he said, "I want you to know that there is still hope, Amelia. I can't claim to know everything about your condition, but I know for a fact that very soon, maybe in less than a year, you will be living a different life. A better one. It'd mean very much to me that I could help."

I swayed on my feet, nonplussed. Was he right? Could Peter's discovery, could cross-species genetics really save my life? Faster, sooner than what Dr. Kane could provide? I hardly dared believe it.

But the look Dr. Connors gave me was so full of confidence, determination; he wanted to help me, too. He believed he could. And I wanted to, too. How could I crush it?

So I looked him in the eye and said, "I-I hope you're right, Dr. Connors. It would mean… _everything_ , t-to me."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

"So, anyone ask you to Prom yet?" Peter asked like he expected it to happen, popping a French fry into his mouth.

We had been stuck in silence so far, sitting the café in a corner booth and pretending that everything was completely fine. Soft, jingly music played from the jukebox, while other customer chatted quietly on the red bar stools next to the counter. If we were dressed in poodle skirts and leather jackets, we'd look like a scene from a cheesy 50's movie.

I glanced up at Peter over my milkshake, taking a sip. This was probably Peter's idea of a good ice-breaker.

It wasn't, but I humored him with a snort. "N-no. I don't p-plan on asking a-anyone, either."

"Really?" he threw me a skeptical look, smirking as he popped another French fry into his mouth. He tried to dip it in my milkshake, but I guarded it with my arms. "I thought you liked Harry. You could always ask him."

"He's in  _Denmark_ ," I said, but Peter already knew. He was just teasing me. "The l-last time I-I saw Harry Osborn was when we were t-twelve, a-and I punched him in the nose. I d-doubt he wants t-to see me, of all p-people, again."

It was totally in self-defense, by the way, and the only time I had ever thrown a punch in my life; it was well-deserved, too. I hated the creepy masks that were hung in the Osborn manor, and apparently twelve-year-old boys thought it was funny to scare twelve-year-old girls by putting on those masks and jumping out of closets.

"Oh, yeah, I remember all the blood," Peter laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling and shoulders shaking at the memory. Peter and Harry had been best friends back then, before Harry was shipped off to some scary-sounding boarding school across the Pond. "I've never seen that much before. I mean, it was the most badass thing you ever did, if it wasn't for Harry. We all thought he was going to die, remember?"

"Yeah," I said, ducking my head and hid my red face by pressed my lips to the glass of my cup. If some wooden masks were scary, then obscene amounts of blood gushing from a young boy's face was terrifying, made even worse by the fact that it was my fault. "G-Good thing it was only a b-broken nose."

"Well, on the bright side, now we all know not to play pranks on you," Peter pointed out. "Harry never tried scaring you again."

"That's b-because he moved to Denmark."

"Exactly."

A grin broke out across my face. I didn't know how, but Peter always seemed to know the right thing to say. "O-Oh, well, that makes me f-feel so much better. Scaring away b-boys with my  _ferocity_ ," the sheer ridiculousness of the idea made us both laugh. "But anyways. A-Are  _you_  going to ask a-anyone to Prom?"

"Hm," Peter examined at his half-eaten burger, taking a bite out of it even as I was looking at him, waiting for a reply. I raised my eyebrows as he continued to chew in thoughtful silence, apparently a 'no' but I saw a noticeable pink in his ears. He mumbled something around the burger but I didn't understand it.

"What was that?" I asked, leaning forward.

He swallowed hard, making a pained expression because the bite was so large. "Uh, I was thinking about asking, um, Gwen Stacy."

"Well, you've made the r-right headway." I asked, unable to hide the growing smile on my face. I smacked his arm, saying, "The q-question is if you're b-brave enough to admit y-you have a c-crush on her."

"What? Who-who-who said anything about  _admitting crushes_? I just w-want to ask her out to Prom!"

"That's, like, the same thing, a-at least f-for guys like you."

"Guys like me? What's  _that_  supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, loner t-types? You're not exactly, uh, popular." I said, taking another sip of my drink. It was cold, strawberry — and just light enough that it didn't upset my stomach, too. "Wearing a-a hood in class d-doesn't help, either. Some p-people might think y-you're creepy."

"What? Really?" Peter ducked his head, lowering his voice to a whisper, looking incredibly self-conscious. "People think I'm  _creepy_? Does Gwen?"

"I, uh, don't think so. You sh-should try it, though. Stretch out y-your wings or-or whatever."

"But what if she says no?"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you! Don't act t-too weird a-around her, at least n-not any weirder than y-you already are. Gwen is nice, and-and even if she does say n-no, at least she won't try t-to humiliate you like Sally Avril did l-last year." I sniffed, and Peter shuddered at the memory. Somewhere in last year's yearbook, there was a picture of Sally dumping her tray of food on Peter's head. I just shrugged, adding as an afterthought: "I-I don't even know w-why you're asking m-me for girl advice, I-I don't exactly know a-a lot, either."

"Well, I talked to her today, and I was  _going_  to ask her, but —" Peter started, then shook his head, a pained look on his face. "Ugh, god, Ben told her about the picture on my computer, you know, with her on the Debate club? I just — and then he told her he was my probation officer! Mia, I wanted to  _die_."

I had a hard time not smiling. "A-And what did Gwen, uh, say?"

"Well, I had to do damage control, obviously," Peter threw up his hand; I was guessing from his attitude that the conversation didn't go as he planned. "I made up some BS about touching up the picture, which I-I don't think she bought, to be honest—"

"I w-wonder why."

"Shut up. Anyways, yeah, it was completely weird and awkward, as you'd expect," Peter just threw his head in his hands, utterly defeated and face tomato red. His groan was long. "So I  _tried_ to ask her, but then it didn't really come out.  _I never even said the words —_ but then she said yeah!"

"She s-said yeah?" This was not where I expected this story to be going.

"I mean, she said yeah to the  _idea_  of us doing something, you know, together," Peter said, holding out his hands and giving me a wincing smile. "Not specifically  _Prom_ , but, uh,  _something_ , you know?"

I had literally no idea what he was talking about. I played with the straw, frowning at him in concern. "And…what? Did you make a d-date? A-Agree to anything?"

"Um. No. I said I was busy."

"Peter!"

"What? She said she was, too! And I, like, got her number. Her  _actual_  number, not like a fake, get-away-stalker number, too."

I just laughed, so tired and maybe a little embarrassed on his behalf. I palmed a hand over my face, shaking my head. "God, you're j-just hopeless, a-aren't you?"

"So, you think I should call her?" Peter gave me a crooked smile.

"Of course you should call her! Jeez, y-you don't need m-me to t-tell you that."

"But how do I ask about Prom?"

"I dunno. J-Just ask if she's, uh, doing anything th-that weekend." I just made a face. I didn't know how to do this stuff either; common sense was the best I could offer in this situation. "If any of her f-friends are going. If anyone's a-asked her. Use your d-dorky charm, she-she seems to like that."

"I'm not  _dorky_." He sniffed.

"Uh, you're p-pretty dorky, Peter. You are th-the  _definition_  of dorky." I held up a finger. "If you looked up 'dorky' in the d-dictionary, there w-would be a picture of your f-face right —"

He brought up his hand and pushed mine to the table. "Oh, shut up. Fine, I'm dorky, I accept that. There's nothing wrong with dorky."

"Of course n-not. Y-You wear it well." I was about to go on, maybe boost his ego a little more because why the hell not, but then I remembered what happened when I was last at school, and decided to bring it up. "Hey, th-the other day I-I found a load of D-Debate Club pamphlets in m-my locker. J-Just a bunch, spilling out. D-Do you know if-if anyone's been g-going around, filling lockers w-with them?"

"Uh, no, why?" Peter said lightly, resting his chin on his hand. His gaze rested on his food, and he stuffed several fries into his mouth at once. "You thinkin' of joining?"

"No. N-not really."

Peter raised his eyebrows, and for a second he seemed disappointed. But it was gone in the next moment. "Oh. How come? Because Gwen's in it, obviously, and I think maybe she'd like it if you joined."

"You mean you j-just want the b-brownie points of h-having me as her friend, s-so I can tell you st-stuff she says t-to me," I translated, and Peter flushed pink.

"What? No, that's not — I mean, it's a plus, sure, but that's not really —"

"I'm j-just joking, Pete," I said, before he could get himself all flustered again. "I-I just wished whoever was, like, st-stalking me about this w-would just tell me, you know? B-Because clearly  _someone_  wants me t-to join. I-I don't know w-why they're being so weird a-about it; first Mr. Rand, th-then Gwen, and now these f-freaking pamphlets. I-It's like they're a-afraid to t-talk to me or something."

"Maybe you just, uh, intimidate them," Peter suggested, although it seemed rather half-hearted. "They don't want to make you angry, or something."

"In-Intimidate? Yeah, r-right." I was about to go on how ridiculous that sounded, but I was interrupted by a sudden coughing spell. It last for a good half minute, and when it was over, I was a little out of breath, dizzy. Withdrawing my elbow shielding my mouth, I could feel something warm drip down my face.

"Whoa, hey, take it easy." Peter leaned forward, his smile disappearing instantly. He reached over for the napkin dispenser and grabbed a handful before handing them to me. "Your nose is bleeding, Mia."

He sounded calm, even though bleeding noses wasn't exactly normal. Then again, my nasal track had been pretty dry lately, so I suppose I wasn't surprised that something dried up and cracked, bleeding. I took the napkins and pressed them to my face, pulling back once to observe the wet, red stains. "Huh."

Peter sat back in his seat, frowning. He seemed concerned with my lack of reaction. "Are you okay? I knew you were sick, but I didn't know how badly. Is it the flu again? You got your vaccines last year, right?"

"O-Of course I g-got my vaccines, I-I'm not an idiot," I said, bringing the napkins to my face again. At least this didn't hurt. "But I've b-been having congestion p-problems and other stuff. Mom th-thinks it's just a-a stomach bug. I'll be f-fine."

"Maybe we should go home," Peter suggested, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was little freaked out. As if the concern on his face wasn't already a dead giveaway. "This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have brought you out here."

"Oh, r-relax. I'm a b-big girl, I knew w-what I-I was doing," I muttered, hoping the bleeding would stop before I got home. If Mom saw this, then she was calling the doctor straight away, and I didn't want to put us through that strain again. "I-I made my ch-choice. And I-I'm having fun. It's fine. Let's j-just finish our f-food."

"Are you sure?" Peter's eyebrows pinched upwards.

" _Yes_ , I'm sure. L-Look," I pulled down the napkins, seeing the blood flow had already stopped. "I'm not even b-bleeding anymore. I-I just look l-like a mess."

"I'll get some water," Peter seemed determined to fix the situation, though, and I couldn't convince him to not get out his seat and get a glass of plain water. I just sighed, slumping in my seat and going back to my smoothie. The back of my throat felt a little thick because of the nosebleed, but otherwise nothing had changed.

Peter came back a second later, and I dipped fresh napkins into the glass, using it to clean the blood off my face. I checked my reflection in the window, before turning back to Peter with a smile. "S-see? Good as new. Y-You worry too much."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but let the matter drop. "Well, if you say so. I still think you should go home, soon. In case, you know, there's an accident."

"I-I'm not a-a doll, Peter. I'm not g-going to break or-or g-get lost if I'm out for t-too long."

Unfortunately, we ended up leaving not too long afterwards. We had been out for only a couple hours; I hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, and now here I was, not wanting to go back home again. I guess I wanted out more than I thought.

Meanwhile, Peter practically had to drag me home. He was all twitchy again, as the sun started to set. We hadn't walked too far away from my apartment; Peter seemed tempted to reenter using the fire escape again, but there was no need, since no one was home and climbing the stairs was easier for me. Also, less terrifying.

We took our sweet time, with Peter constantly checking on me, as if I might collapse at any moment. I had to shake him off for the third time, on the fourth floor, saying, "Peter, for the last t-time, I'm  _fine_. It was j-just a little n-nosebleed. I-I can make it to my f-floor on my own."

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Peter was nervous, but also withdrawn; he was thinking about something, something hard, and something that bothered him. I thought about prompting him, asking what was up, but couldn't figure out how I wanted to say it. By the time we reached the next floor, Peter had beaten me to it.

I wasn't expecting it, either, when he suddenly blurted, "Do you ever miss your dad?"

"I — what?" I did a double-take, pausing on the steps to throw him a funny look. Peter rubbed his face with his sleeve, looking quite unsure himself. "N-No. Not really. I've n-never even met him."

"Oh, no, I meant —" He grimaced. "Do you ever wish you knew him?"

I just snorted. "Why does it m-matter? I-It's not like h-he's coming back."

But the look on Peter's face, the hard press of his lips, his hunched shoulders, said that my answer was important to him. He just gave me a long, hard look, and I bit my lip, reconsidered. "…Well, I-I mean, I guess. I-I don't know. He d-ditched Mom as soon as she learned she w-was p-pregnant. J-Just walked right off the f-face of the earth. She d-didn't even know u-until later she didn't have an address for him, or-or even his real name. S-So no, I-I don't really want to know a guy like that."

"Even if he's your father?"

"He certainly didn't care," I retorted, anger tinging my voice. Why was Peter pressing this? "My mom was so upset she-she burned all her pictures of him. She won't even t-tell me the name he gave her. She doesn't want to find him, and she d-doesn't want  _me_  to find him, either. Why? Why do you care?"

"I don't know," Peter just shrugged, turning away from me to scowl at the floor. He continued up the steps on his own, and it took me a moment before I followed him. "Sometimes I just wonder how things would be different if, you know, everyone was here. Our family, I mean. Your dad. My parents."

"I-I-I think the one we have is p-perfectly fine."

"You don't think you're missing out?" Peter fixed me with a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "You don't think that there's some possible world, a better world, where you have everyone, and they're there for you, and they know everything about you? That they can be proud of you?"

Mom was proud of me plenty, I didn't need anyone else's approval. I just scowled, but the feeling of anger abated when I realized what was really going on. It took me a moment to find the right words, and we climbed almost another floor before I could say them.

"It's o-okay to miss your p-parents, Peter."

He started to protest. "It's not about  _me_  —"

"Peter, I-I love my mom. I love y-you, and-and Aunt May, and Uncle Ben. I w-wouldn't change that f-for the world. It's n-never bothered me that my d-ad i-isn't here, because I never n-needed him. What I have is-is enough. Y-You-You're enough. It's not worth t-time th-thinking about what m-might've been, what'll n-never happen. It's just…the p-past. It's over. W-we have w-what we have."

He heaved a long sigh out his nose, leaning heavily against the banister, perhaps accepting defeat. I came to a stop next to him, and we stood there for a moment, and I let him think. Peter rested his head against the wall, staring off into the distance. His voice was soft, almost hoarse. "You don't think we might've had a better life?"

I frowned. Was he talking about me, how sick I was? How it might've been easier, how I might be healthy, if Mom wasn't single and working on her own? That Peter might be living in a nicer home, with well-off, mildly famous parents? That we wouldn't be two loners growing up together in a world that only got stranger and stranger as time went on?

Maybe it was all that, and more. I didn't even know if I should be angry, upset, sad, or all three. I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, but it clearly did to Peter.

I had to be frank. "P-probably, yeah. But th-then you'd be a-a different Peter, a-a-and I'd be a different Mia. A-and I like you th-the way you are r-right now. Why, d-do you  _want_  th-things to be different? D-do you want that p-perfect world?"

"Sometimes," Peter shrugged, turning his head slightly to look at me, still appearing discontent. He pushed off the wall, started moving again. "Everything just feels so…wrong, sometimes. Imperfect. And I wish I could fix it. Make it better."

"D-do you think  _I'm_  im-imperfect?" My jaw tensed, and I wasn't sure I even wanted to say that, but it was too late. Is that what Peter meant? Was he unhappy with the way I was? Did he wish I was something, someone different?

"I — no." Peter hesitated, backpedaled. But I could see the panic in his eyes, the realization of what he just said. "I mean, it's just — it's difficult, sometimes. And it shouldn't be. Not for you."

"I c-can handle d-difficult," I said, terse. "I've b-been handling it all my life."

"So you're telling me," Peter asked, looking skeptical. "That not once, not once in your entire life, you wished it didn't have to be this way. That this life doesn't slow you down, that it doesn't make you feel like, that you feel like…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, maybe didn't have the guts, but I understood him nonetheless. I grit my teeth; I didn't like Peter questioning my opinion, and I liked even less that he had a point. That he was right.

I hated it. I hated being called out for being a hypocrite. I hated that he was right, that I was ungrateful, that I wanted something better, even though I already had more than I could ask for. That I didn't appreciate everything my mom, Peter, everyone has done for me, because of me, because of the way I was, and I just wanted a world that was easier for me to live in.

It was like a pounding in my head, that anger. It wasn't even at Peter, who provoked it. It was at myself.

"Y-yes." I admitted after a long silence, climbing up those stairs. We were almost to the top. Although my words were shaky, my voice was cold. "Yeah. S-sometimes I wish I-I wasn't this way. Sometimes it's too hard. Sometimes I feel like I'm just a-a burden, that everyone who sees me just—just sees some sick little girl who—who can't take care of herself. I've never felt big, or-or strong, or anything like that. Sometimes I-I hate that I don't have it."

I could feel Peter's eyes on me, the surprise, but I couldn't meet his gaze. My hands were fists and my steps were sharp and hard. He came to a stop at the tenth floor landing, bring up a hand to stop me. "Mia, I-I'm sorry, I didn't —"

"Whatever," I shook him off, making a beeline towards my door. I could hear Peter follow slowly behind me, him having lost his energy, while I burned.

I struggled with the lock, before it finally gave. In my frustration, I swung it open, didn't even stop as I stormed in.

Until I saw Mom, waiting for me with crossed arms in the living room.

She did not look happy. "I was wondering where you were."


	9. To The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Deleted Scene. In this version, Wanda and Pietro break Mia out of the hospital themselves. I ended up scrapping this idea as I couldn't explain how the twins would've found out Amelia was there, when they were convinced she had already died miles away.

 

**To the Rescue**

* * *

" _Pietro, hurry up_!"

I shifted in the gurney, groaning in complaint at the voice disturbing my sleep. What was this, another nurse to check my vitals? Did they have to be so loud?

" _I am!_ " a male voice replied, followed by the sound of snapping metal. " _There's a lot of tubes here..."_

I opened my eyes, squinting at the two presiding in my room. I had gotten used to the solitude, to the sight of nurses and doctors, so I was rather startled when I realized the man and woman in my room were, in fact, not a man and woman at all, but actually a boy and girl. Close to my age, and certainly not wearing anything like appropriate hospital gear.

The girl was closest to me, kneeling by the gurney, so we were about eye-level to each other. When I turned my head to look at her, she smiled and said, "Oh, you're awake! Just hold on, we'll get you out in a moment."

"...Who are you?" my voice was hoarse from lack of use, and my brain still lagging behind due to sleep. I frowned, trying to make sense of the brunette fiddling with something. It took me a moment to realize she was trying to undo the straps around my wrist. "What are you doing?"

"Breaking you out, of course." the male voice said, and I got a face to him when he appeared at the end of my bed, unnervingly fast, and started yanking on the straps around one of my ankles. He was tall and strange white hair, with a light stubble. He could be handsome, if he didn't look like a vagrant. "How the hell do you open these things?"

"Who are you?" I asked again as the girl suggested the boy undo the buckle first.

"We're your friends," The girl glanced at me, starting to frown when that got no reaction out of me. "...You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" I asked, trying to shift up in the gurney, but the chest strap was still keeping me down. I grunted, frustrated and sore, as a headache started to form. "I have no idea who you are. Or where I am. Or why I'm here."

"Shh," the girl pressed a hand to my forehead, and I was startled by how cold it was. "You'll be all right. We'll explain everything, but first these stupid straps have to come off."

The boy, Pietro, yanked uselessly at my ankle, before throwing up his arms and saying, "Ugh, it's pointless!"

"Come on!" the girl urged. "We don't have a lot of time. Someone's going to come around eventually!"

Pietro snapped something back and for a minute or two they bickered, while I just lied there helplessly. Their fight wasn't helping with the headache, so eventually I just snapped, "Will you stop, please? It's not that hard. You just have to lift the velcro first, then pull it out and undo the buckle."

"Oh." the two frowned, abruptly silenced. Luckily, though, they were good listeners, because two minutes later I was getting up, bending my knees and elbows and finally getting to work out the kink in my back that's been bothering me since I got here. I was still wobbly, though, thanks to lack of movement, and the two helped me stand while I regained my balance.

They were so patient and helpful, it actually creeped me out. "What...what do you guys want? Who are you?"

"She's Wanda," the boy said.

"He's Pietro," the girl said.

"We're twins," they finished in unison.

"Oh, good, that explains so much," I muttered, sarcastic. Standing up now, I was lightheaded and woozy. "N-need water. My head hurts."

Wanda left my side briefly to get a cup of water from the side table, while Pietro supported me. It took me a while to notice we were almost of equal height, if I could stand up straight - which made no sense. If anything, I should've been shorter than Wanda.

She returned, pressing the paper cup to my lips. As I drank, she said, "We've been looking all over for you. Then we heard the news. Strange girl tried to break out of hospital. Your face was on TV. People thought it was a funny story, but we knew we had to get you out. We don't have a lot of time before they catch up to us."

"Who?" I nearly choked on my water before finally managing to swallow it. "Do you mean the doctors? Because I'm pretty sure this is illegal."

The twins paused, their bodies going tense and still, like animals about to bolt. Wanda flashed me a wary look. "...would you rather stay?"

I was surprised by the sudden change in the air, the fear and animosity they suddenly displayed. I realized I had absolutely no idea what was going on, and even less of a grasp on just who these twins were and what they were like. Certainly way more paranoid than I expected.

I shook my head. "No, no way. I want to leave. Now."

"Good," Pietro said, helping me along to the door. By the time we reached it, I could stand on my own two feet again, although I still felt like I might fall over at any second, an unstable sculpture about to collapse. "Did you tell them your name?"

It took me a moment to remember. "No. Just my first name. I couldn't remember all of it at the time."

"That means they probably haven't figured it out, yet," Wanda said from behind as Pietro peeked out the door, making sure the way was clear before we could step out.

"Which means they don't know you're here." Pietro concluded as we started down an empty hallway. This made absolutely no sense to me, but I was getting a little used to it by now.

"They who? The police?"

"Worse," Wanda said.

"Who's worse than the police?"

Wanda looked like she was about to answer, but Pietro suddenly pulled back, pushing us against the wall before we could cross a corner. Before I could complain about the rush, two doctors walked past, deep in conversation, and didn't notice us at all as they continued down their path. As soon as they were out of earshot, Pietro ducked out from the corner and went down the way the doctors came from.


End file.
